


The Private Life Of Sherlock Holmes

by TearStainedAshes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Coma, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Minor Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan/John Watson, Modern day John Watson, Modern day Sherlock Holmes, Multi, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Pregnancy, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock in Love, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victorian John Watson, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:31:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 54,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5552492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearStainedAshes/pseuds/TearStainedAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This co-written fanfic follows Sherlock and John's relationship after the events of TAB. All the way from Sherlock's time as "Holmes" in his mind palace, to modern day times, where he will have to face what he feels for John. It will not be an easy, or quick journey, and will likely be a slow burning romance between Sherlock/John.  co-written with @tearstainedashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Holmes had been away from Baker Street for a fortnight now.

He'd vacated his home in Baker Street in favour of a seaside cottage further north of England; a vastly different environment to the one he was usually acquainted with.

He had sent a telegram to his London home a few days after he'd left, informing his housekeeper that he was taking a holiday at the seaside, due to recent ill health.

It wasn't totally a lie. It was true that Holmes had suffered greatly with chest problems for a while now. It was his blasted pipe that sat at the root of all his problems, but nevertheless it was not so much a physical thing that was ailing him. Rather, Holmes found himself under emotional distress instead.

He'd come to the seaside in order to collect his thoughts. Some of his recent feelings frightened him. Oh, how he detested emotions. They almost always ended with broken hearts. This time, he was certain, it would be his heart that was caught in the crossfire.

Watson was with his wife, Mary, completely oblivious of Sherlock's holiday or indeed his current predicament. He was too preoccupied with early married life to have picked up on anything; something Holmes was eternally glad for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson discovers Holmes has left Baker Street, and decides to do something about it.

It had been two blissful months since he'd wed Mary. She was the most wonderful woman and she truly enjoyed his stories about his adventures with Holmes. She even encouraged him to visit his former flatmate after their honeymoon was over.

He was skeptical at first. Holmes wouldn't want to see him so soon after his honeymoon ended, still so joyful and giddy after his time away. But he finally decided (with Mary's persuasion) that a quick visit to see how he was doing wouldn't hurt. They'd chat, drink some tea and share some biscuits, and then John would be on his merry way to join his new wife at their new home. And then he'd be able to join Holmes on cases once more.

He hoped Holmes had been fairing well without his assistance the past couple of months. Though he had no reason to worry. Holmes had been working and solving cases on his own long before they'd been introduced.

The day he and Mary arrived back in London after their honeymoon, he kissed her goodbye and walked the short distance from the train station to Baker Street. He knocked on the door and smoothed down his mustache while he waited for Mrs. Hudson or the young boy Holmes often employed to do odd jobs around the flat to answer.

Archibald, the young servant boy at 221B, opened the door and stepped aside to let the gentleman at the door in.

"Mornin' Doctor Watson. 'Fraid that if you want Mr Holmes, he's not here." 

"Good morning, Archie," Watson said as he came into the flat. He quirked an eyebrow at the lad once they'd cleared the threshold. "He's not here? Then where is he? Did he get a case?”

“Not a case, sir. Mr Holmes went away a few weeks back.”

"He did?" He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up, as if Holmes would be stood there waiting, his pipe between his teeth and a smile on his lips. He shook the image away and turned back to Archie.

"Did he say where he was going? Or when he would return?”

"He's gone to the country, sir. On account of his ill health. He sent a telegram a few days after he left, but he didn't say when he's coming back." 

"Oh. I had no idea Holmes was ill. I do hope the poor fellow returns to full health soon. If he returns, do tell him I stopped by? And that I wish to see him as soon as he is available.”

“Of course, I will do Doctor Watson.” Archie paused for a moment, as though unsure of whether he should say something. “Only. It’s an odd business if you don’t mind me saying. You’re mister Holmes’s doctor after all. Why then has Mr Holmes gone to such extreme lengths to get away, without so much as telling you?”

Watson paused and thought about that.

"Well, I suppose it was because I was on my honeymoon. I was away, and so he went to another physician. As to not telling me, perhaps he didn't want to worry me. I assume we'll find out when he returns.”

“If he returns, that is. He took off without a word. He’s taken everything, even his scientific equipment. Mrs Hudson isn’t too hopeful about his return.”

"He took it all? Everything?" Watson frowned and stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "Did he leave right after I did?”

“Yes, sir. Now that you mention it, yes he did. Not long after anyway.”

"Oh dear." Watson frowned and scratched his chin. "I told him my marrying Mary wouldn't change our relationship. He must have been worried that we wouldn't be able to work together anymore, or that our friendship would end. You said he was in the country? He must have gone to his family's estate in Sussex. I'll have to go see him and speak with him.”

"No sir. He wanted to get away to a completely new place. He's rented a cottage on the north coast of Northumberland. You can find him there. If you're lucky you can catch the last train." 

“Thank you very much, Archie. I won't have any time to send a telegram until I find Holmes. So I'll let both Mary and Mrs Hudson know where we are. Thank you.”

"Not a problem. I just hope you find him. It's rather dull here without Mr Holmes." 

"Yes," Watson mused as he dashed off to the train station. "It was rather dull without him.”

He made it to the station and managed to buy a ticket to Northumberland for the last train of the evening. He stared out the window the whole ride, wondering how Holmes had been fairing the past few weeks on his own. Had he been taking care of himself? Was he eating? Was he sleeping? He hoped he didn't stumble across a house that resembled a crime scene when he arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcomed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson tracks down Holmes and insists on examining him to ensure he is in "full health"

Dusk was beginning to fall. Holmes was sat in front of a warm, crackling fire, a pipe sat neatly on his lips. His gaze on the flames in front of him was hazy and unfocused, as he found himself getting lost in his own thoughts, something that had been occurring a lot as of late.

* * *

 Watson arrived in Northumberland just before nightfall. He asked around to see if anyone had seen or heard of Holmes and if they might be able to show him where he was staying. An older gentleman who owned a tobacco shop had seen him earlier that very day as he had sold him some of his finest pipe tobacco.

As the village Holmes was staying in was so small, the man was able to point him in the direction of the more expensive cottages that overlooked the sea. Knowing Holmes as well as he did, Watson knew he would have picked an ocean view not only for the beauty but also for the remote location.

A majority of the cottages were already dark for the evening, but there was one where smoke was billowing out of the chimney and many candles were lit to light up the rooms.

"Found you, Holmes," Watson said triumphantly.

He approached the cottage, the closest one could get to the cliff to see the water but still remain a safe distance away from the dangerous cliffside, and knocked on the door. No doubt he would startle Holmes by his unannounced and unexpected arrival. It wasn't often he could shock Holmes so, and he revelled in each moment he did so.

* * *

 

Holmes was roused from his thoughts by a knock at the door. How peculiar. He wasn't expecting visitors. Who would be foolish enough to call on him at this time of night? 

He leapt from his chair and immediately strolled over to the door, swinging the door open with a fierce expression on his face, ready to shout down whoever was outside his cottage. 

"Evening, Holmes," Watson said cheerfully, a cheeky grin on his face.

Holmes felt both shock and elation when he saw John  standing at his door . His angered expression fell into disbelief. 

"Watson, it can not be! My dear fellow, what are you doing here?”  
   
"I returned from my honeymoon earlier today and went to Baker Street to see you. I'd so missed our chats and adventures during my time away. But the young lad, Archie, told me of your absence and how you had come here for your health. Tell me, how are you fairing since you've come here?”

"My health?" Holmes blinked. "Ah yes! Of course. My chest is still giving me trouble, but nothing to worry about I assure you. “

"Would you mind if I gave you a quick examination? Just to see how you're fairing for myself. You know how I trust my medical opinion over your personal one.”

“Watson, that isn’t necessary. I really can assure you that I am well. The sea air has done me good.”

"Regardless, I want to see for myself how you're doing. May I come in? Or are you going to make me stand outside in the dark all night?”

"I have the mind to do so. You have no right turning up here without notice, poking your nose into my business. I didn't ask you to come." 

"And I didn't expect to return to my friend's home only to be told he'd left for the country soon after I'd left for my honeymoon." He sighed and shook his head. "I told you nothing would change, Holmes. My getting married wouldn't affect our friendship. I'd still assist you on your cases. Our friendship won't be affected.”

“Oh. I see." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You think that this is to do with you.”  
   
"Well, not completely about me," Watson said with a shrug. "But I know you've been worried about our friendship and how my married life will affect it. You've been... not yourself... since I announced my engagement to Mary. You've been quite distant too. Have you been readying yourself for a loss of companionship?”

“Watson, my dear boy, are you quite delusional? I get on perfectly well with Mary. I attended your wedding, did I not? I was your best man. I am not insecure about losing your companionship, nor do I rely upon it. I solved cases prior to our introduction, and I will continue to do so long after you are under ground.”

"So now you're equating my marriage to my death?" Watson scoffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Holmes, do not treat me as if I were a child. Let me in so I may examine you and then I'll leave you alone if that is what you truly wish.”

"Don't twist my words, Watson. That isn't what I meant at all." Holmes opened the door wider and stepped aside to allow the older man to step inside. "But very well, do come in."

"Thank you, Holmes." He stepped inside and went over to the fire to warm himself, the cool sea air having chilled him. "Now, where are your medical supplies? I'm afraid I didn't bring my medical kit as I didn't have time to pack before I rushed over here. So yours will have to do.”

"You needn't have rushed, Watson." 

Holmes sighed deeply and went into the kitchen to pick up his bag of medical supplies.  When he returned he noticed Watson's eyes lingering on him for a moment longer than was deemed appropriate.

"Watson, here you are." He cleared his throat and handed the good doctor his bag of medical supplies. 

Watson watched as Holmes went about gathering his supplies. He made little observations as he watched, an opinionated examination before he had all the facts. He watched Holmes' gait, how he held himself, how his chest rose and fell as he breathed, how his hair curled and fell in his face after he hadn't bothered looking after it for a few days (he'd clearly not bathed in quite some time given how oily and greasy his hair looked in the candlelight), how his dressing gown hung on his shoulders and flowed beautifully around his tall athletic frame.

He sucked in a deep breath and shook himself. Where the in the blazes had that come from? He glanced at Holmes again, his gaze sweeping up and down his body, before he noticed Holmes was holding out his meagre medical kit.

"Oh. Thank you." He took the bag, their fingers brushing just slightly as it was transferred from one set of hands to another. Watson cleared his throat and moved to set the bag down on a side table and shed his coat, draping it over one of the chairs in the sitting room.

"Sit," he instructed, managing to keep his tone level. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows, a habit he'd formed after many years of examining patients and to keep blood off his sleeves whilst he was in Afghanistan. He got a thermometer out of the kit as well as a stethoscope and went over to Holmes to begin his brief examination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock persuades John Watson to inject cocaine with him. 
> 
> Warnings for drug consumption/addiction.

"You're being ridiculous, Watson. I do not have a fever. There is no need to examine my temperature."

Nevertheless, Holmes still sat as instructed and allowed Watson to examine him.

Watson stuck the thermometer in Holmes' mouth under his tongue.

"Two minutes, then I'll read that," he said as he prepared the stethoscope. "I'm going to listen to your lungs first. Deep, steady breaths. You know the routine."

Holmes knew the routine well. He took deep, level breaths as the good doctor listened to his lungs.

Both Holmes and Watson smoked a fair bit of tobacco, but it was Holmes who smoked on a more frequent basis, and it was he who sometimes struggled with his breathing. No direct link between tobacco consumption and disease of the lung had been linked, but Holmes was not stupid. Although not a doctor he knew that there was a link of sorts, though what it was he could not say. He knew that Watson would not be able to tell what was wrong with his lungs, despite being the best and wisest doctor that he knew.

He studied his friend carefully. Watson was crouched in front of him, his medical device pressed flat and cold against Holmes' chest. There were frown lines marring his usual joyful face, increasingly so as he listened to Holmes breathing in and out. This was a man that very clearly did not know what was ailing Holmes. From the veins sticking out in his neck, he could tell Watson was focussing purely on trying to find an acceptable answer the mystery rattle in the pair of lungs he was listening to.

At last Watson took out the thermometer from his lips, checked it, and hummed with approval. Definitely no temperature, as he had already assured Watson.

" I did go to see another doctor whilst you were gone. I am not completely naive of my health, Watson. They recommended that I should take some cocaine."

"Ah. I see," Watson murmured. "I think that would be a good place to start. Would I be right in assuming you have some here already?"

" Naturally, Watson. I purchased some strong tobacco, as well as good amount of cocaine for myself. You are welcome to join me. I was not expecting a visitor tonight, however there is plenty to share around."

"I'll just stick with the tobacco tonight," Watson said, moving the stethoscope to listen to Holmes' heart. "I had a rather bad reaction to cocaine the last time I took some."

"Watson, dear boy, please join me. There is nothing more enjoyable than falling in to the pit of ecstasy with a fellow man."

"Holmes," Watson sighed. "I'd rather not. Last time..." He only vaguely remembered what had happened the last time he'd injected himself with the drug. He recalled dancing, and it was the happiest he remembered being, but he could not recall who he had been dancing with. And he remembered crying the next morning but not understanding why.

"It wasn't a great experience," he finished, swallowing around the lump that had formed in his throat as he thought about that evening.

"Very well, Watson. I shall not press you. Although, I have to say, I am disappointed in you. I thought you were better than this, but you are just like the rest of them. As dull as you are dim."

"Don't insult me, Holmes," Watson growled. "You know very well how intelligent I am. And you know my military history. So you know I can name every bone is your body while breaking them. Do not infuriate me."

"Intelligence and the ability to retain information are two separate things." Holmes pointed out calmly. "It is I who should feel insulted, in fact."

"Oh?" Watson draped the stethoscope around his neck and quirked an eyebrow at his companion. "How so, dear fellow?"

"You turn up out of the blue, demanding to examine me, and after months of myself enduring solitary confinement you refuse to inject cocaine all because of one bad experience?"

"Alright, Holmes. Alright." Watson held his hands up in defeat and sighed in exasperation. "I'll allow you to inject me with cocaine. But you will be to blame if I have another bad experience."

"You trust me, do you not? I shall be with you for the entire time."

"Of course I trust you," Watson said softly. "You have never given me reason not to."

"Good. If you're done examining me, I'd rather like to get our supplies."

"As you wish."  Watson took the stethoscope off and put it back in the medical bag. He got out two needles from the bag and made sure they hadn't already been used, not wanting to risk putting anything dangerous from Holmes's experiments in his body.

"They're sterile," Holmes assured Watson. "I'm going to have to insist you take your belt off." He leaned forwards and began to unbuckle Watson's belt. "To tighten our arms," he explained as his friend looked at him in horror.

"Holmes!" Watson gasped. "Haven't you got smaller belts of your own for that? Mine is far too large, don't you think?"

"Nonsense Watson, now sit still. You're acting like a petulant child. " Holmes unbuckled the belt around John's waist and pulled it loose. He ignored the other man's protests completely, instead focusing entirely on setting up all the equipment needed.

He placed a hand on Watson's knee without thinking, as with the other he began to buckle the belt tightly around John's left arm.

"Stop fidgeting, I'm concentrating."

Watson gulped and forced himself to relax. It wasn't that he was necessarily worried about the proximity of Holmes to his person, though he was much closer than he normally allowed himself to be. No. He was mostly worried about what would happen once Holmes slipped the needle into his vein and the cocaine entered his system. He hadn't had a memorable experience last time, and Mary had not been happy to wake up to him sobbing into his pillow.

"You aren't worried about that wife of yours, are you? I can tell you that she has been, let's say, unsupportive of your use of cocaine and tobacco consumption in the past, but she won't mind just this once. Your wife has a weakness, Watson. She finds me charming and irresistible. She has grown fond towards myself. She, like you, would not deny me of such pleasures."

"I'm not worried about Mary, but- Shit!" He shot up and pulled at his hair, thankful Holmes was in the kitchen preparing the cocaine and not anywhere near his person with a needle "I have to send a telegram to let Mary know I'll be here watching over you. I don't want her to worry when I don't come home tonight."

"Must you use such vulgar language? You know my opinion on the English language, Watson. Swear when need be for effect, but no more than that." Sherlock returned a moment later, with the prepared needles and a spare tobacco pipe for John. "Besides, you have left it too late to send out a telegram. Dusk is now falling, so there would be no sense in sending one right this instant. You'll have to wait until dawn. In the meanwhile, I am sure Mary will be just fine by herself. After all, it is just one night."

"Right. Just one night," he mumbled. "I did tell her I was going to see you. So I assume she'll think I stayed over after we'd had a few drinks."

"One day back as a married man, and you're already running away to meet up with another man." Holmes teased Watson as he sat back down. "I'm not sure you're quite leading the married life right."

He sat in his own chair and grabbed Watson's arm gently, pulling it towards him so it rested in his lap. He rubbed his thumb over the exposed flesh gently, searching for a good vein. It was then that he noticed Watson looking at him suspiciously, as though not quite certain what to make of Holmes' comment. Of course he knew that Watson often pondered over Holmes's sexuality. In fact, with one quick deducing glance, Holmes was certain that Watson was deeply uncomfortable and unsettled by the way he was acting/ speaking.

"I'm not running away from Mary, or married life," Watson grumbled. "We've been away for two months. It's perfectly normal for me to have missed the company of my best friend." He glanced down at his arm, his hand resting on Holmes' thigh. He flexed his fingers a bit and made a fist so Holmes could find his vein better."Just hurry up and get it over with," he grunted impatiently. "Before I change my mind."

"I'm not stupid, you know." Holmes murmured, quiet but just loud enough for Watson to hear. " I am aware that you feel I'm being overly friendly."He found a good vein and flicked it with his index finger so it stood out. He flicked it again, this time a little harder than he needed to, ensuring that Watson was alert and paying full attention to him.

Happy that he was going to be able to inject Watson, he plunged the needle into the good vein, and released the 7% solution into his friend's bloodstream. "You needn't worry, Watson. I was not born of the homosexual variety." He removed the needle and patted the injection site firmly to ensure the drug was able to act swiftly.

Watson sucked in a breath when the needle was inserted into his arm. He winced a bit as he felt the solution being forced into his body.

"That... that's not," he stuttered, his mind already feeling foggy.

Holmes worked on unbuckling the belt and loosening it from Watson's arm, ignoring his friends attempts to speak. "It is a strong solution, I warn you. It usually takes 10, fifteen minutes with a 5% solution, but I have just injected a solution of 7%. It shall act faster, so be prepared, and don't panic too badly. I am right here with you, after all, so nothing can go wrong."

Watson groaned and closed his eyes, unable to focus on anything with them open. His mind was swimming, he felt like he wasn't even in his body anymore.

"There we go, that's a dear fellow. You just let that settle into your system. I shall join you very shortly." Holmes said as he removed the belt completely and worked on tightening it on his own arm.

He repeated the process he had with Watson, expertly seeking out his own vein, and injecting himself with the 7% solution. He exhaled softly as the needle pierced his skin and the cocaine entered through his bloodstream. Used to a stronger solution of cocaine, it was going to take him a little longer to reach a point of ecstasy and bliss, but he could already feel the edges of the world being taken off as a fog seeped into his brilliant mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes begins to break through to the real world and is greeted by a very worried modern-day John Watson.

  
Watson gasped when the euphoria of the drug hit him hard, his eyes snapping open and his entire body going limp.

"Bloody hell," he slurred.

"Alright?" Holmes asked as he settled back in his chair, in wait for his own euphoric high.

"God yes," Watson slurred, a goofy smile on his face.

"Good," Holmes smiled warmly at his friend. "It's good to see a smile back on your face. “

"Feels good," he hummed, settling down into his chair. "Just waiting for the burst of energy. What shall we do when it hits? Last time... I remember dancing. Would you dance with me, Holmes?”

"You know how much I love dancing, Watson." He paused briefly to lick his lips. "Of course, it would mean being close to you. I know how much that bothers you sober." 

"Oh, no, that doesn't bother me," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I always enjoy your company, no matter our close proximity. I was always under the impression that /you/ were the one who was uncomfortable whenever I stood a touch too close. So I would step back whenever I caught myself standing too close.”

"I usually can't abide physical contact. However, I do make a few exceptions. There's Lestrade, Mary, Mrs Hudson, and yourself." Holmes leaned in closer to Watson. "Can I tell you a secret? I /especially/ like touching and being touched by you. Could you touch me now?" 

"Really? You actually like when we're in physical contact with one another?" Watson's breath hitched as his pulse began to increase. "Fuck," he swore, gasping for breath. "Oh God. I forgot how this felt.”

"Language," Holmes reprehended Watson, but he was smiling broadly at the man in front of him, and his tone lacked its usual scorn.

 He held a hand out to Watson and gestured for him to take it. "Come on, Watson. You wanted to dance. Let's dance." 

Watson took the offered hand and went to stand, groaning along the way.

"Jesus," he grunted. "I feel as heavy as a stone but like I could dance forever." He squeezed Holmes' hand before letting go and heading over to the phonograph. "We need music before we can dance. What records do you have here, my friend?”

Sherlock stood up and walked over to Watson. "I'm afraid I don't. I had to make some sacrifices with what possessions I brought with me. I can sing, if you would like." 

"Oh, please do, Holmes. I think you have a wonderful singing voice." He made to stand but stumbled a bit, reaching out to steady himself. One hand found Holmes' arm, the other his friend's belt. He laughed as he fell to his knees, snickering at his clumsiness in his inebriated state.

Holmes gasped breathlessly as Watson kneeled in front of him. 

"Oh Watson, I think you know exactly what you're doing.”

He continued to giggle and tried to pull himself up, his hand gripping onto Holmes' arm rather tight. He slipped back down and laughed loudly.  
"He-help me up, Holmes?" he asked between giggles.

“Watson, you are unbelievable.”  Holmes smiled warmly at the man crouched on the floor, and tugged him upwards so that he was standing. 

Watson laughed and readjusted himself, moving his hand from Holmes' belt to his waist and slid his hand down his arm to take his large hand in his smaller one.

"Shall I lead while you do the singing?" He asked. "I've been getting better during the dancing lessons Mary and I took before the wedding. Oh. Sorry. I'm not supposed to talk about that.”

Holmes blinked and shook his head. “You assume that talk of marriage bothers me. Whereas it is not my area of expertise, I do not want you to hide that side of yourself from me.”

"No, not marriage in general. My marriage. It bothers you when I talk about it. Or Mary.”

“No, it doesn’t. I like Mary. I see a lot of myself in her.”

"Oh? I assume that's a good thing?”

“Yes, I am very fond of myself, after all. Fond of Mary. I’ve forgiven her, Watson. No need to concern yourself. I’m sure there was plenty reason for her to put a bullet in me.” 

"Pardon?" Watson asked, looking up at his friend, his brow creased in confusion. "Who put a bullet in you?”

“I-“ Holmes’s brow creased in confusion. His words made little sense, even to him. “It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.”

"Right. OK." Watson straightened himself up and moved a bit closer to Holmes. "Shall we dance?”

“Naturally, Watson.” Holmes pulled his friend closer still, and held him firmly at the waist. 

"Will you still sing for us?" Watson asked, shuffling slightly to get in the proper starting position.

"Yes, yes, of course. What would you like me to sing?" 

"How about 'Do Not Forget Me'?" Watson suggested. "I've always liked that one."

"An odd choice, I grant you, but very well." Holmes began to sing, voice soft and low. _"Do not forget me, do not forget me-"_

Watson had said he wanted to lead, but Holmes was having none of that. He pressed himself closer to Watson as they moved around the room, Holmes graceful, Watson less so. 

Watson gladly let Holmes take the lead, humming along with the song. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against Holmes' chest, listening to his heartbeat as they danced.

Holmes’ vision blurred around the edges as he danced with Watson. His voice faded away into a soft, trembling whisper after a while, and it was like his whole had come to a shuddering standstill. 

Watson held on even as they began to stumble slightly. The cocaine was finally beginning to affect Holmes and his mind was working faster than his body. He giggled and righted himself, gripping Holmes tight.

"Perhaps we should take a break from dancing until you regain your equilibrium?" He suggested.

“Yes, maybe that would be a good-“ Holmes froze up against Watson rather suddenly, his sentence falling dead on his lips. His focus was on the floor, which felt as though it was vibrating beneath his feet.

No. His senses were not deceiving him. The floor was shaking in and out of focus, a deep pulse running through him with each shake and tremor he felt. Watson was the only thing in the room that seemed to be stable, so he gripped onto him firmly and refused to let go. 

"Holmes? Are you alright?" Watson asked, peering up at his friend. 

_"Sherlock?”_

Holmes pressed his lips firmly together and swallowed hard, pushing down the nausea that was trying to overcome him. He hugged Watson tighter, so tight that his knuckles paled significantly, and the man he was holding on to let out a yelp of shock. 

"Holmes!" Watson yelped.

_"Sherlock? Sherlock?! We're losing you!”_

Holmes could hear the other voice, faint and tinged with familiarity. No matter how hard he shook his head he could not rid himself of it.

"Holmes, my dear fellow, what is wrong with you?" Watson asked, attempting to out some distance between them so he could look up at his friend. “Holmes?"

Sherlock's vision was assaulted with a hot blast of white light, Watson's face flickering in and out of focus, before being consumed completely. He felt the solid shape of Watson's body leave him and his entire body jerked in response to the sudden change in his surroundings. 

 _"Sherlock!"_ John cried.

 _"He's overdosing,"_ a woman said. _“Eratic--_

Sherlock locked eyes with an entirely different John Watson. A man definitely not from his time. But a man of kindly disposition all the same. He'd know those eyes anywhere, imploring him, begging him to be OK.

"Watson?" He asked out loud. "No moustache? I'd grown fond." 

"What?" John touched his upper lip and looked down at his friend. "I... I shaved that off ages ago. Wait. Watson? Since when do you call me that?”

"You'd be surprised." 

"Would I?” The new John Watson raised an eyebrow in concern.

 _“Holmes?!”_ Watson was yelling in his mind, an insistent tone forming around his surname.

Sherlock just about managed a groan in response to both voices. Another wave of nausea passed through him, and he was just about able to lurch forward to wretch all over an expensive pair of leather shoes, splattering them with a disgusting amount of vomit. One quick glance told him the shoes belonged to Mycroft, and his mouth managed a quick twitch of satisfaction before he fell back onto the bed with a thud, and his surroundings faded into black.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Watson and Holmes share a bed, and confessions are made.

"Good god, Holmes! Are you alright?" Watson was leaning over him, gently slapping his cheeks to rouse him. "What on Earth happened? I thought this was only a 7% solution? Did you switch your own dose on me? Holmes? Holmes!”

Holmes's entire body jolted and suddenly he was back in his seaside cottage, covered in vomit, on the floor, and shaking in Watson's arms.   He groaned loudly and continued to twitch and sweat profusely. 

"I'm running you a bath, Holmes. Are you capable of undressing yourself or do I need to do that too?”

Sherlock groaned and grabbed Watson tight, not wanting the other man to let go of him.

"No." He growled when he felt Watson pull away. "Don't. Not now. Stay. " 

"Holmes, you're filthy and covered in your own vomit. I'm running you a bath. I'll be back. Don't worry. I'll be back.”

“I said don’t go!” Holmes grabbed on to Watson as though his life depended on it. “You are to remain where you are. Do you understand?”

"Holmes, you are not a child," Watson growled, wrenching his arm free of Holmes' grip. "Stop this right now and take off your clothes.”

Holmes yanked Watson backwards, rather harshly, until the other man was practically sat in his lap. “Don’t go.” He repeated firmly.

"Then come with me, you pompous prick," John growled. "I'm running you a bath whether you want me to or not. Now get up and take off your clothes. You're getting mine filthy as well now.”

Holmes paled significantly. Those weren’t his Watson's' words. They belonged to the other John Watson. The one he’d just woken up to. 

“I’m losing my mind,” he said, voice quivering. “Oh by all the gods, help me Watson, I’m losing my mind.”

Watson softened and looked down at his friend. His chest ached when he looked upon his friend's face of anguish. It was pure, raw, unequivocal anguish. Emotion he'd never seen his old friend express before.

"Dear Lord, Holmes," he breathed, cupping his friend's face in his hands. "You're scaring me. Are you quite alright?”

“No. Watson, I am not alright. I fear that I have dropped into the realms of insanity! You shall have to lock me away in the big white house. That is where all of the mentally deficient end up.”

"I wouldn't lock you up in the Diogenes Club," he said, chuckling at his attempt of humour. "But jokes aside, I do not believe you to be crazy, Holmes. You've had a bad reaction to the cocaine. You need to relax and come down from your high. A bath will help. Trust me. I'm a doctor.”

"I don't think I can move from this spot." Holmes murmured. 

Yes you can, Holmes,"Watson murmured. "Come on. Let's start by getting you to sit up on the chair.”

"No, Watson, I cannot. Please allow me just to lay here with you a little while longer." 

"Alright, Holmes. But I insist you take off your soiled clothes. I'll grab you a blanket so you don't catch a chill.”

Holmes looked at Watson and blinked, a flash of innocence passing over his face. 

"Help me?" 

"Yeah. Of course." He sat up and began unbuttoning Holmes' shirt, slowly revealing his pale chest. He swallowed thickly as he neared Holmes' trousers. He pulled his shirt tails out and finished unbuttoning the garment.

"Um... trousers too?" He asked.

Holmes nodded and averted his gaze from Watson. He was...ashamed.Hated feeling so exposed. 

John finished undressing his friend and handed him a blanket from the sofa to cover up.

"I'm going to put these in the sink to soak and then I'll be back to lie with you.”

Sherlock felt a shiver run through him. He was suddenly cold to the bones without Watson, so he pulled the woolen blanket tighter around him.

Watson ran some hot water in the sink and let it fill up. When the sink was full he shut the water off and swirled the clothes around a bit to make sure they were all submerged. Once that was finished, he returned to Holmes and sat down beside him on the floor.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, touching the back of his hand against Holmes' forehead to gauge his temperature.

“Awful,” Holmes murmured. “I feel awful.”

"I think you'd feel more comfortable in bed. Can you move? Or will I have to carry you there?”

"Could you perhaps carry me?" Holmes asked, his cheeks flushing red in embarrassment. 

"I will certainly try." He laughed softly at his friend's flushed face. "No need to be embarrassed, Holmes. I'm a doctor. This isn't the first time I've seen a naked man before.”

"Maybe not, but it's the first time I have been naked in front of another man before."

"Actually, it's not," Watson said. He pulled Holmes up to sit and smirked. "You've been naked in front of me before. You were quite high, and had stripped naked. I found you in your chair, passed out when I came back from the surgery. I carried you into bed that day as well.”

"Oh." Holmes looked even more mortified, if that were possible, and dropped into an uncomfortable silence. 

"Don't be embarrassed, Holmes," Watson said. "I'm a doctor. It's fine. It's all fine.”

"I'll be the judge of that, Watson. Do not tell me what is fine and not not fine, when it concerns my own body. It is not gentleman like to do so." 

"My dear boy,"Watson sighed. "There is nothing to be ashamed of. I am a medical professional. If I can remain professional during a matter such as this, so can you."

They finally made it to Holmes' bedroom and Watson placed him on the mattress. He covered him better with the sheet for the sake of Holmes' embarrassment."I'm going to run you a bath now, alright?" he said, voice soft.

"No." Holmes said firmly. "You will remain here. Should I choke on my own vomit whilst out of your sight, my death will be on your hands.”

"You won't die here, Holmes," Watson sighed. "It's impossible. Lie on your side if you're so worried. Then, if you vomit, it will be on the floor and you won't choke on it.”

"What I mean to say is...perhaps I don't want you to go. Stay, Watson. “

Watson softened and paused in the doorway. "I'll come back, Holmes," he murmured. "I'll always come back." He turned to look at his friend, a sad smile on his lips. "Let me at least grab something to clean you up with, OK?”

Holmes whined in complaint. "I find you leaving me most disagreeable." 

"I'll be right back," Watson assured him. "Two minutes. Feel free to time me.”

"You shouldn't be cleaning up after me. You're not in a fit state either. Watson, listen to me. Get back here!" 

"I'm fine, Holmes!" He called out from the bathroom. He wet a rag and carried it back to his friend. "See? I'm fine. And I told you I'd come right back. No need to make a fuss.”

"I am not in an agreeable mood, Watson. Mind your tongue when speaking to me, or I shall cut it out." Holmes smirked devilishly at his companion. "It might make a drastic improvement.”

"You wouldn't do it," He said with a smirk. "You'd miss my voice too much. And you know I'm rubbish at sign language. I'd probably ask you something offensive in front of everyone during your consulting. I'd make you blush crimson and stammer and everyone would wonder if you were ill.”

"I do not stammer." Holmes huffed. "Besides, I am ill, so I would have an excuse!”

"You are not ill, Holmes." Watson sat beside his friend on the bed and began to clean him with the warm, wet rag

"I am ill!" He complained. "I feel dreadful." 

"And that is no one's fault but your own," Watson chastised gently. He dabbed the cloth along his friend's forehead, wiping up the beads of sweat there. "You need to rest now.”

"You need to rest, too. You'll come down from your high, and when you do, it'll hit you hard." 

"I know, Holmes," he sighed. "Trust me. I'm a doctor, remember? I know what cocaine does to the human body. I'm going to go sleep on the sofa in the sitting room. You can stay here.”

"No." 

“No?"

"You aren't sleeping on the sofa, Watson. It will play havoc with your back. You shall share my bed tonight.

Watson swallowed, a hot blush creeping up his neck."Holmes, I'm not entirely sure that's appropriate.”

"I don't see why you deem it inappropriate. You have already assured me that you are accustomed to the male body.”

"Purely at a medical standpoint!" Watson protested. "I've never shared a bed with another man before.”

"I see. The idea repulses you. Very well. Enjoy the sofa doctor Watson. " 

"Holmes," Watson groaned. "Stop. Fine. I'll sleep here tonight. Should either of us wake up and become ill in the night, it would benefit us both to be closer to the loo and where I can keep an eye on you.”

Holmes seemed to stretch across the bed in a victorious manner, a grin breaking out across his face. He patted the mattress as an invite, and lifted the covers.

"Watson, do join me.”

"Let me get out of my clothes first," he grumbled, pulling his braces off as he toed off his shoes.

Holmes watched as Watson struggled to undress himself, still uncoordinated under the influence of cocaine. 

"Would you like help? You're getting into an awful pickle." 

"I can't seem to get a grip," he grunted, struggling to unbutton his trousers. "Sodding things.”

"Come here," Holmes beckoned. "You're exerting yourself. You've gone bright red." 

Watson stumbled over to the bed and tried not to collapse. "Help me," he grunted in frustration. "I can't get the damn thing off.”

Holmes darted forwards with fast, efficient fingers. He managed to unbuckle Watson's trousers with ease. His elegant fingers delved further down, creeping underneath Watson's underwear with grace. 

He tugged at the material his friend was still clothed in and it soon fell to the man's ankles, underwear and all. And there Watson sat, naked from the lower half, and mortified. To worsen things, Holmses administrations had not gone unnoticed by Watson's body. Watson was aroused. Very aroused. And clearly the man did not want to be in such a condition. 

"Holmes," Watson gasped. "I deeply apologise. I do hope you won't take this personally. I mean nothing by this. It just, sort of... happened.”

"It's biology." Holmes said nonchalantly. "I can hardly blame you for...your arousal." 

"Mm. Yes. Well." He was still a hot shade of scarlet, smoothing down the tails of his shirt. "You wouldn't happen to have some nightshirts for us to wear, would you?”

"Unfortunately, I do not." Holmes eyed Watson carefully. "Take off your shirt, Watson. Don't cover up on my behalf. You'll be more comfortable like that. If you roll onto your back, you'll calm down soon enough." 

"I think I'd rather stay in my shirt." But his actions belied his words as his fingers pulled at the buttons of his shirt, exposing his chest to the cold sea air wafting in through the little cottage. It slipped off his shoulders and landed in a pile on the floor. He sucked in a harsh breath as he revealed himself to his friend, watching as Holmes raked his eyes over his body in a predatory manner.

"There. That wasn't too hard, was it?" 

"You know my qualms about sleeping in the nude," Watson said. "I don't understand how you enjoy it so much.”

"I find it liberating. Surely you and Mary participate in such...acts?" 

"Of course we've had sexual intercourse! We were just on our bloody honeymoon! But even after the act was done, I never slept in the nude beside her. I always had a nightshirt or pants on to cover myself.”

"Why?" Holmes frowned. "That doesn't make sense. Surely the post coital nakedness is something you would at least be curious enough to try.”

"I suppose I've never been comfortable with it," he said with a shrug. "Not even with any of my previous lovers before I met Mary.”

"Previous lovers? And have there been many...previous lovers?" 

"A fair few," he said with a smirk. "I didn't get the nickname 'Three-Continents Watson' in the Army for eating the most exotic of exotic foods. Though... in a way... perhaps I did." He laughed at his own lewd joke and how it made his companion blush.

"I...see." Sherlock's cheeks rose with powdered red. Watson could be so vulgar sometimes."How...many...times. I mean...did you keep count?" 

"I did at the time," he said as he crawled into the bed, keeping a respectable distance between his naked body and his friend's. "Bragging right, you know? But now... I don't quite remember. It had to have been at least one in each continent, then the girl I'd lost my virginity to, and a fair few others after coming back to England and meeting you. So, I'd wager a guess at at least six. Maybe seven?”

Holmes barked out a laugh, his eyes shining with mischief. "Is that all? Hardly a conqueror of women, are you?" 

"Oh? And what's your number then, Holmes? Mine was only an estimation after all. How impressive is your score?”

Watson was trying to embarrass him. Derail him. Call him out as a virgin. This only made Holmes smirk. 'The virgin' was only a nickname, and it did not mean what people thought it did.

"The fair sex is your department, Watson. However, I am known well in one of the gentleman clubs my brother owns, should you take my meaning." 

Watson's eyes widened just a bit, the effect comical with his pinpoint pupils.

"But... you said... earlier... you weren't... weren't of the... homosexual... variety," he stammered

"Yes, well,  I lied. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. As to how many? Hundreds, probably. Always after a case. To celebrate my victory." 

"Oh? So... when you would disappear after a case... you were... having sexual intercourse... with another man?”

"I was participating in the act of buggery, yes.”

Watson's cheeks and neck reddened at the thought of his friend during such an illicit act.

"Were you... did you..." he stammered, embarrassed at his own curiosity. Though he knew if it weren't for the cocaine still in his system, he never would have asked. "Top or bottom?”

"Oh. Top. There is a reason I am still called the virgin. I've never been buggered myself before. It's always me buggering some poor man below me." 

"Poor man? Why... oh." Watson's face flushed absolutely crimson when he realised what his friend was insinuating. "You like to be rough?”

"It's my speciality. I allow myself to lose control. A sexual encounter with me tends to alter their world entirely." 

"D-does it?" Watson asked, damming himself for his stutter. He flushed an even deeper scarlet and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Obviously. I am an extreme man, Watson. I do not do things by halves." 

Watson cleared his throat and tried not to stare at his friend. At his pale chest, lean torso, muscular thighs, and certainly not at his groin.

"Right. Well. Good. That's... um... good. ... Goodnight, Holmes." He turned over to face away from him and curled up in the blankets, attempting to will away his erection and force himself to sleep.

"You tried to shame me for my virginity." Holmes said, a sinister tone laced in his voice. "Looks like that certainly backfired." He watched as every muscle in Watson's body tensed, and his friend continued to pretend to sleep.  "I hope you can be discreet." Holmes continued, in the knowledge that Watson was almost certainly faking being asleep.  "Should you let anything slip about my ways, I will terminate our friendship." 

"I would never out you like that, Holmes," Watson whispered into the dark room. "That would be a death sentence for you. I would never do that to my friend. I couldn't bear to lose you again.”

"I'm glad you understand the consequences." Holmes edged closer to Watson, closing in the space between them. "And what about you, Watson? Have you ever had thoughts of a homosexual nature?" 

Watson stiffened and gripped the duvet tighter in his hand.

"I... I-I-I..." he stammered, his breath coming in short pants. Holmes was warm behind him, his skin soft where they touched. He could feel the calluses on his fingers from the violin where his fingertips were pressed against his hip.

"There isn't anything wrong in thinking those sort of thoughts. You shouldn't be ashamed. It's more normal than you think." 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes and Watson spend the night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock. Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original source material is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> Authors note: This chapter has some very mature and sexual content. If that sort of thing isn't your cup of tea, you can skip this chapter. The next chapter will probably be far more on the sedate side.
> 
> I should also point out that the first half of this fic is taking place in Sherlock's mind palace, much like the events in 'The Abominable Bride', only with a few twists along the way.
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated.
> 
> -Acemindpalace

"Holmes," Watson breathed, his voice barely audible. "I... I've never had those types of thoughts. Never in my life. Not even when I was serving in the first Afghan war. Men often get lonely when they are apart from their wives or sweethearts. We have... impulses. But I'd never had the impulse to... to fornicate with another man." He paused to take a deep breath, letting it out slowly."Not until you," he whispered on the exhale.

Holmes placed a hand on one of Watson's hips and squeezed until he was certain bruises would form. He pulled the older man closer with brute strength, their bodies making contact with a loud skin on skin slap. "You're playing with fire, Watson."

Watson groaned and arched his back, his hand reaching for Holmes on his hip and squeezing his fingers tightly."Then we'd be wise to not burn ourselves," he moaned, daring to roll his hips against his friend's.

"I never claimed to be a wise man, Watson. A genius, yes. Devilishly handsome, naturally. But not wise." Holmes' grip tightened until Watson let out a groan of pain, satisfying the younger man's need to mark his dominance, to let Watson know exactly who was in charge.

"Good lord, Holmes," Watson moaned, his entire body trembling. "Just kiss me already."

"I am afraid that I can't," Holmes said, his lips hovering over Watson's ear, breath ghosting against him. " You must think of Mary, Watson. I want to kiss you, believe me, but I cannot drag you into unfaithfulness."

"Forget about Mary," Watson spat. "She loves me, but I... I don't feel as deeply for her. When I last took cocaine on my honeymoon... I was thinking of you. Not her. You. We were dancing, like we were tonight. But when I woke up the next morning, alone, there was an ache in my chest that I couldn't explain and then I found myself to be crying. Because I'd realised I didn't love Mary as much as I..." He stopped himself before he could damn himself any further. He wasn't even sure what he felt for Holmes was love. A deep affection and friendship, yes. But love? He didn't know.

"Nevertheless, you are a married man. There are limits, after all. All three of us can't be…" Holmes closed his eyes and exhaled harshly through his nose. "Well, I believe you get my meaning."

"Then Mary doesn't have to know." He quickly turned over and pinned Holmes beneath him, hands on his shoulders, straddling his hips. "Now do shut up and kiss me."

"No," Holmes reversed their positions just as easily, now pinning Watson down with his immense strength. "If we are to do anything with each other, it is I who has to be in control. Those are my rules, Watson. all of the others have to abide by those rules, so you are no different in that sense."

"Yes, of course, anything," Watson said in a rush. "Please."

"To be clear, Watson, I shan't participate in buggery with you tonight. There are certain things you'll have to do in order to prepare yourself. You do know how sex with other men works, yes?" Holmes's grin was almost predatory when he saw the colour Watson had turned. "You have a vague idea, from basic biology, yes, but you're out of your depth. You haven't a clue, really."

"I... I have an idea, yes," he stammered. "But I'm not ready for it tonight. Kissing sounds most appealing though. Please don't delay it any longer, Holmes. ... Sherlock... please."

Holmes cupped his hands around Watson's face, his slender fingers caressing the stubble he found there. He studied Watson with his piercing blue eyes, deducing, evaluating. The older man no doubt expected him to be a clumsy, inexperienced kisser. His friend had, after all, had only seen him kiss people for cases.

When he at last leaned in with his curved lips, he set out to prove Watson how very wrong he was. He pressed their lips together lightly at first, attentive and tender. He was sure of himself as he pressed a little firmer and tried to gain access to Watson's mouth, a flicker of tongue running over the man's pressed lips. However, as he did so, he felt Watson clam up and the lips Holmes was kissing clamped shut.

Holmes pulled back, concerned that he had done something wrong. "Watson?" The man was quite in shock, looking almost like he'd forgotten how to kiss himself. "Watson?"

The first press of their lips together had felt incredible. John's eyes had fluttered shut like a virginal woman, his breath leaving him in a silent rush of air. Holmes' hands cupping his face felt different than Mary's. They were far larger and he could feel some calluses and chemical burn scars on them, but they felt... softer.

His lips felt different than Mary's as well, but their plush softness were quite similar to a woman's. He wanted to reach up and touch him, but when he made to move his arms Holmes' tongue had licked along his lips, short-circuiting his brain. He froze, trying to process what had just happened. He'd never felt that sensation before, had only ever done it to women. Was this what it felt like to not be in control of a lover? What it was like to have another take charge?

Suddenly Holmes' lips were gone and he was speaking to him, a tinge of worry in his tone. He blinked up at him, mouth parting slightly as he remembered how to breathe.

"H-Holmes?" He gasped.

Holmes placed a hand on Watson's bare chest and splayed out his fingers. He could feel the man's heart thundering dangerously fast beneath his touch, a sure sign of anxiety or pleasure. Perhaps a mixture of the both? Watson was…frightened? Apprehensive? Unsure of himself? Why? Holmes surveyed him with a look of curiosity twitching on the surface of his usually cool mask, and then, after a moment of deducing he broke out into a manic grin.

"You've never let someone take control before, have you? John Hamish Watson, army doctor, renowned for having sex with women all over the world, and you're scared of letting someone else take control? Your heart feels like it's going to break through your ribcage."

"It feels like it just might," Watson panted, his chest rising and falling with his rapid breathing. "It's... I've never…"

"You haven't done a lot of things, clearly. You're jumpier than some of my first time clients. Do calm down, me take control. I know what I'm going."

"C-clients?" He asked, but Holmes had already begun to kiss him in an attempt to get him to relax. His eyes fluttered shut again, much to his chagrin and embarrassment.

Holmes tried to gain access to Watson's mouth once more, tongue slithering against the man's lips teasingly, but he still wasn't having any luck. Apparently Watson was still pondering over the use of the word 'client' and as a result was clamping up again.

Watson reached up and gently pushed against Holmes' chest. They broke their kiss once more and John licked his lips. He wasn't sure if it was out of his normal habit or if he wanted to taste Holmes there.

"When you said 'client,'" he began. "What does that entail? Do men pay for your... services?"

"Why?" Holmes asked, such a teasing tone to his words,ignoring Watson's question. "Are you offering to pay me?"

"Depends on if you're charging me. What's the rate for sodomy among men these days?" He asked, voice equally teasing.

"You won't be able to afford me, Watson. The men who pay me have more money than they could possibly spend in one lifetime."

"Oh?" He swallowed at the prospect. "Um... how much do you charge?"

Holmes whispered into Watson's ear and the man stared at him, jaw open wide.

"Good Lord, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed. "And there are men who can afford that?!"

"Are you saying I'm not worth it?"

"Oh, no, Holmes. You're worth every penny." He smiled and reached up to cup his friend's face in his hands, sliding a thumb across one of his sharp cheekbones. His skin was so much softer than he'd imagined, though he should have expected it given his level of personal grooming. "Tell me, what else are those men paying for besides you buggering them? Is there more to your services?"

"My services range from buggery, to providing pleasure with my mouth, to hitting men with my riding crop. The same riding crop from the day we met, might I add."

"The... the one you whipped that corpse with?" Watson asked, astounded.

Holmes's grin turned positively evil."The one and the same. I have you to thank, of course. Thanks to your stories in the strand business has been booming."

"That had been on my mind," Watson said with a laugh. "It would seem I've made you famous in more areas than one."

"You didn't know about me, did you? The life I lead when we're not on cases, or when you're with Mary. You hadn't a clue. You thought I was a clueless virgin."

"I... I did. Yes," he admitted. "And I must say that I am pleasantly surprised to have been proven wrong by you once again."

"Shall I kiss you again?" Holmes asked. "Or are you still bothered about my clients?"

"No, I mean, yes, you can kiss me again and no I'm not bothered by your clientele anymore. I do believe I've worked that curiosity out of my system. Please do kiss me again. You're quite good at it."

Holmes huffed against John's ear in mild annoyance. "Quite good?" He asked ludicrously.

"Very good," Watson confirmed, his hands trailing up Holmes' torso to tease his nipples. "Extraordinary. Amazing. Fantastic. God, Holmes, the things I want you to do with that mouth."

"What do you want Watson?" Holmes gasped in surprise as Watson tweaked his nipple.

"That luscious mouth," he moaned, "all over me. Kissing me. Caressing my skin. Sucking on my cock." He punctuated the last with a gentle tug on Holmes's nipple, causing the younger man to gasp above him.

"Does Mary suck your cock?" Holmes asked, his curiosity peaking, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with you betraying her. It's so...unlike you. You're dependable, faithful John Watson."

"I've only ever been faithful to you, Holmes. Only you." He kissed him softly, his hands cupping his face. "And to answer your question, no, Mary doesn't suck my cock. She's never given me that pleasure. Her mouth can't fit around it."

"Understandable. Your girth is something to be admired."

"Is it really?" He smirked proudly. "Show me then, Holmes, if you can handle my 'impressive girth.'"

"Only if you promise your heart isn't going to give out when I do."

"Has that happened before?" He asked as Holmes slid down his body, dragging the sheet with him, exposing Watson to the cool sea air in the cottage. "Have any of your clients blacked out for the pleasure your mouth as given them?"

Holmes's teeth dug into Watson's fleshy torso, lips smiling against the warm skin. He nipped and bit and licked until the man's entire middle was covered in red marks. Only then did he pull back to answer.

"I tend to overstimulate my clients. It can lead to them blacking out, or forbid their hearts stopping!"

Watson gasped as Holmes marked him with his teeth. He'd never experienced such a sensation before. It was... euphoric. He could understand why some clients blacked out.

"Ah! Amazing!"He gasped.

Holmes licked a fine strip across the middle of Watson's stomach, watching in satisfaction as the man began to tremble.

"H-Holmes," Watson gasped, his body trembling and his hands scrambling to hold onto something. One gripped at the sheets and the other found its way to tangle in his friend's hair.

"What do you want, Watson? Tell me. Describe it to me. In detail."

"I... I want... Ah! I want your mouth on me! I want you to suck my cock! I want to see your lips stretch obscenely over it, hear and feel you gag on it!"

Holmes hummed and crawled down Watson's body, until his nose was buried in the man's pubic area.

"Oh, Holmes," Watson moaned, his grip in his friend's hair tightening. "Please."

Holmes grunted in pain as Watson tugged on his hair tightly. He retaliated by nipping at the man's exposed thighs.

Watson yelped and released his hold on Holmes's hair, but his knee jerked up at the bite and clipped his friend in the jaw.

"Holmes! Good lord! What was that for! Are you alright?"

Holmes groaned and rubbed at his jaw, which was now aching. It was going to bruise if the throbbing was anything to go by. Instead of being angry about it, however, he instead burst out into laughter.

Holmes's laughter made giggles burst forth from Watson as well. Soon they were guffawing like fools, Holmes framed by Watson's legs while Watson shook with laughter.

Whilst Watson was laughing still, Holmes bent down with his smiling lips, sinking his teeth into the man's thighs again. This time his hands pinned Watson's knees down, preventing him from lashing out.

Watson yelped again, his body jerking in an awkward fashion. His yelp quickly dissolved into a moan as Holmes began to nip and suck his thighs the same as he'd done on his torso.

"H-H-Holmes," he gasped, writhing on the bed. "Oh, God!"

"Not God," Holmes replied in his deep baritone. "Only me."

"Impertinent," Watson gasped, chuckling softly. "Oh, please don't tease me anymore. I can't take it."

Holmes moved down the bed further until he was nosing Watson's prominent arousal. "I do like to tease."

"If you don't do something soon I'll take matters into my own hand," Watson threatened. "Please, Sherlock. Please."

"Sherlock?" Holmes rumbled, licking a strip of saliva up the length of Watson's cock. "I wish you'd call me Holmes."

"Ah!" Watson cried out, his entire body seizing at the wetness. "Dammit, Holmes! Stop teasing me!"

Holmes continued using his tongue lavishly, searching for Watson's sensitive spots. Watson whimpered and whined as Holmes licked his cock. He fell back against the bed, his arm covering his eyes as his body began to tremble.

"Holmes," he whined.

Holmes hummed as he slowly, seductively, lowered his mouth so that he took in the tip of Watson's cock.

Watson gasped, his hips jumping at the sensation of Holmes's warm, wet mouth slurping at the head of his cock.

"God, Holmes," he moaned. "Yes. Just like that. Keep going. Oh god."

Holmes instinctively hollowed out his cheeks in order to take more of Watson in, then began to move up and down the man's length in a steady and torturous rhythm.

Watson cried out and whimpered, his thighs shaking from the effort of not thrusting up and making Holmes choke on his cock. He pried his arm away from his face and forced himself to watch, wanting to see Holmes's plush lips stretched around his cock. He nearly came at the sight.

Holmes stared into Watson's eyes, unblinking, as he continued to move up and down the man's cock, unfaltering and unforgiving in the pace and intensity he was working at.

He himself was flushed in the face, mouth salivating around the slick cock he was swallowing down on. He knew exactly what his administrations were doing to Watson, could see as his balls drew tighter against him, and knew that within seconds he was going to give his best friend the best orgasmic experience of his life.

"Ah! Ffff-! Holmes!" Watson cried, his eyes snapping open (when had they closed?) as he felt his orgasm begin. "Ah! I'm…I'm going to…"

Holmes did not still his movements. He worked Watson through his orgasm, ensuring that he swallowed every last drop.

Watson cried out when his orgasm began, his body seizing from the force of it. His eyes rolled back in his head as Holmes continue to suck on him, drawing out his orgasm and milking him dry.

"H-Holmes," he stuttered before collapsing on the bed, his senses going black for a moment before everything came back to him in a rush.

Holmes pulled away from Watson and curled up against the man's body, warm and satisfied that he'd completely unravelled his best friend. When Watson reached out a hand, as though offering reciprocation, Holmes shook his head.

"I'm never interested in that part, Watson. My own release is not necessary. My body is just a vessel, after all."

"I find that hard to believe." Watson mumbled, tongue heavy from his orgasm and exhaustion. "You're a living, breathing man, Holmes. You are flesh and blood. You have feelings. Impulses. You can't simply feel nothing. It's impossible."

"Of course I'm able to feel things, Watson, but I do not enjoy my own impulses. I much prefer to revel in the impulses of other men. "

"Have you never been curious about the pleasures another man could bring you?" He slid his fingertips up and down his friend's thigh, just light, teasing touches. "About how it would feel to ejaculate down another's throat. Down /my/ throat?"

"Watson," Holmes breathed out, the word tired and hanging heavy in the air between them. "Please don't do this. I'm far from the innocent you believe me to be, but I am not in any type of mood to continue this just now. You must understand, it's not that I don't want to. I do, but this, this….feels wrong."

"What feels wrong?" He stopped his motions on his thigh and looked into the face of his friend. "What about this... about us... feels wrong?"

"It's not you, Watson. I'm the one that is wrong. Can't you see?" Holmes sighed after a long stretched out moment. "Of course you can't see. After all, I am the one who…did the unthinkable."

"And what was that, Holmes?" Watson asked, his hand reaching up to cup his cheek. "What happened, Sherlock?"

"I'm not sure yet," Holmes seemed to trail off into his own thoughts. "I will have to go deep, Watson."

"Deep into what?" Watson asked, keeping his voice soft.

Holmes shook his head. "Best not to ask that."

"Can I help in any way?" Watson asked, ignoring Holmes's cryptic replies. "You don't have to do this alone, Holmes. I'm here for you, in any way you need me."

"You can go to sleep and forget about all of this."

"What if I don't want to? What if I don't want to forget?"

"John Watson doesn't get a choice in this matter. This is mine to keep or forget as I please, and only mine."

"I don't understand. I'm John Watson, Holmes. Me. Why do I have to forget? I don't want to forget. Please, Holmes. Please don't make me forget."

Holmes shifted in the bed and turned so his back was facing Watson.

"Go to sleep." He ordered in a no nonsense kind of voice.

Watson huffed in protest, but didn't turn away. He stayed on his back, the sheet draped loosely down over his hips, though one leg stuck out of the covers. He rested his head on his hands and stared up at the ceiling of the cottage, listening to the gentle sounds of the sea and the night birds chirping and hunting for food.

The peaceful sounds eventually lulled him to sleep, curled up facing Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter still has elements of sex in it, and the rating has been bumped up to Mature. The chapter after next has some very explicit sex, but I'll still be keeping the rating at Mature (unless AMP wants to bump it up to Explicit). But we'll always make sure to add disclaimers of sexual elements or more triggering scenes in the chapters.
> 
> ~TSA


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relationship between Holmes and Watson is now quite tense, and Mary comes to try to get the two to speak to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: There is some masturbation in this chapter, as well as mentions of blood and some gore at the very beginning and near the end of this chapter.
> 
> ~TSA

Bent over the twisted and bloodied corpse, Holmes inspected the scene like a bloodhound scenting a trail. He pulled his sleeves up to the inner crook of his elbow and leant in closer, his brow creasing with concentration as he picked the victims hand up, taking note of the small specks of dried blood under the fingernails. He turned his neck, as though going to speak to Watson, but the man wasn’t there, nor had he been for a very long time. Since the…’incident’ as Holmes now liked to call it, Watson had become increasingly distant and had started declining cases, in favour of spending time in marital bliss. It was as though he and Holmes had not spent an intimate night together, and all speak of homosexual tendencies were not allowed, not even behind their closed doors, something which Watson had made certain of.

It used to be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, but now, as his chronicler had decided to fade from his life, Holmes found himself alone in both his work and his life.

"Holmes?" Detective Lestrade's voice said somewhere in the room. "Holmes, are you alright?"

“Yes,” Holmes cleared his throat. “Quite alright. That is more than can be said for our friend down here.” He gestured to the corpse.

"Right. Yes. Of course." He looked down at the corpse as well. "What have you found?"

“She was clearly acclimatised to violence of some sort. There are bruises on her wrists that are days old, but she died no less than a few hours ago. Perhaps a victim of domestic abuse? No wedding ring, so that option can be eliminated. What really interests me, however, is her fingernails. Specks of blood can be found under her nails, like she clawed at something, or rather someone. Her last few moments were clearly a struggle, but our victim did try to fight against her attacker."

"Perhaps she was in a brothel?" Lestrade suggested. "Could explain the bruises. Men gettin' a bit too rough, or gettin' into arguments with the boss."

“No.” Holmes shook his head. “This woman was a respectable lady. She wasn’t the type to spend her time in brothels. This was clearly the work of someone who knew her quite well."

"And you said she wasn't married?" Lestrade asked, jotting things down in his notebook.

“No. Not married. No wedding ring on her person. Most likely an uncle, or a cousin. What do we know of the woman’s family?"

"Um..." Lestrade flipped through his notebook, scratching at his mutton chops as he searched for the information. "No known father, her mother died when she was eight, so she was raised by her mother's sister. No siblings, though her cousins were probably the closest she had."

"Question her eldest cousin. If I am correct, which of course I am, you shall find scratch marks on him matching her bloodied nails. Jealous cousin probably. Wanted rid of her since she arrived at her aunt's."

"Right." He made a note next to the eldest cousin's name. "Would you fancy coming to the interrogation? I bet he'd confess as soon as you walked into the room. The famous Sherlock Holmes come to reveal all his secrets."

Holmes shook his head, declining Lestrade's offer.

"I'm busy."

"Oh? With what?"

"Stuff. I'm busy with stuff," Holmes answered cryptically.

"Right." Lestrade nodded, his face pulling in weird directions as he tried not to smile. "Stuff. Of course. Go do your... stuff." Holmes narrowed his eyes at him.

"Problem?"

"No, no. No problem at all. I'll just go and interrogate the suspect. You go tend to your... stuff."

"I don't like that tone of voice. Would you spit it out already? You look like you're having some kind of seizure!"

"I'm just wondering if the stuff you're busy with involves Dr. Watson in any way? We never see him with you anymore. Have you two ended your partnership?"

Sherlock whipped around so fast his top hat almost came toppling off. He grabbed it and righted it on his head. "Partnership?" He quipped. "You ought to be careful what words you use, Lestrade. Or I shall ensure you are incarcerated for spreading your blasphemous lies!"

Lestrade held his hands in front of him in a defensive gesture.

"Calm down, Holmes. I didn't mean anything by it. I was referring to your professional partnership. You know, as your assistant? I wasn't implying what you thought I was implying. I know Watson is a happily married man, and you've never shown interest in anyone, so there's no reason for you to be so defensive."

"I..." Holmes seemed to falter, as though thinking about retorting, but his jaw clamped shut and he just shook his head, turning away from Lestrade's questioning gaze.

"Wow. Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words?" Lestrade chuckled a bit. "I never thought I'd see the day. I'll let you know when we've caught the murderer. Do have fun sorting out your... stuff." He waved and walked away, hailing a carriage to take him to the victim's home address.

Sherlock snorted and stormed from the scene to hail his own cab, berating himself for being so incredibly foolish.

\---

Watson stared at the empty seat in front of him at the breakfast table. Mary had gone off with her Votes for Women campaign group and left him alone with their dreadful maid, Jane. She'd nearly botched up his breakfast, almost caused him to have an asthma attack when she'd decided to dust the curtains in the sitting room with him still reading the paper in front of the fireplace, and then had almost ruined his best pair of boots in her attempt to clean the mud caked on the soles. She really was quite incompetent and he didn't understand why Mary insisted on keeping her. He'd have to have a word with his wife about having a word with the maid. Her dreadfulness was getting utterly out of hand.

Now, he looked across at his wife's empty chair and then at the stacks of telegrams behind him on the mantle, all from Holmes. He'd been ignoring his requests for his company on his casework somewhat out of spite, but mostly because he couldn't face his friend without being reminded of what had happened between them.

Holmes.

That night spent at the cottage was... more than he'd been expecting. He'd never known Holmes had been so... active... in sexual encounters. Or that he was a homosexual. But he was even more surprised when he realised he wasn't bothered by the fact his best friend preferred the company of men to women. Though he was quite startled at his own brazen demands that his friend pleasure him with his mouth.

Oh, that mouth.

Watson felt his cock swell at the thought. The image of Holmes's lips stretched around his cock, the warm, wet feeling of being inside his mouth, the slick slide of his tongue over his cock head and his most sensitive areas. He sucked in a breath and palmed himself through his bespoke trousers (paid for by Holmes after having taken him to his own personal tailor). He groaned low in his throat, feeling it reverberate through his chest.

 _Holmes, Holmes, Holmes,_ he groaned to himself, feeling himself twitch under his palm.

What was he doing? He couldn't fantasize about his best friend at his wife's dining table. He shook the images from his mind, though his cock remained hard. He stood from the table, leaving his egg and toast untouched, and shuffled off to the nearest restroom, planning on relieving himself inside.

He locked the door behind him and quickly fished his cock out of his trousers and pants, groaning at the feel of his hand on his hot flesh. He slid his foreskin back, revealing his purplish red cock head, and gently swirled his palm over it, collecting the beads of pre-ejaculate that had gathered there to use as lubrication. He gasped when he finally began to stroke himself, working fast so as not to arouse suspicion from his nosy maid.

He hobbled over to the loo and hovered over it. Easy clean up, no evidence, and he could play off his deviancy as a normal trip to the loo. Once he was situated, he allowed the images of Holmes sucking him off to reenter his mind. He groaned and fisted his cock harder, imagining he was fucking Holmes's mouth.

"Fuck, Holmes," he moaned, though he tried to keep quiet. His fantasy shifted to him buggering his best friend, Holmes writhing beneath him in ecstasy.

"Oh, God, John!" his version of Holmes cried. John's hand moved faster at imagining Holmes calling him by his Christian name. "John! Don't stop! Ah! I'm... I'm cumming!"

"I'm -," Watson grit out to himself, biting his bottom lip to quiet his grunts and whimpers as his orgasm hit him hard. His seed fell into the toilet bowl with soft little splops, the noise echoing in the quiet room. As he came down from his euphoria, John pulled the lever to flush his shame down the drain and zipped himself back into his trousers. He washed his hands and made sure his face wasn't flushed before exiting the restroom, returning to his now cold breakfast.

He sat down and pushed his food away, resting his elbows on the tabletop and covered his face with his hands.

What was he going to do about this situation?

\---

Holmes was in a foul mood after the case of the murdered woman. If Watson had been with him, the case would have been given a ridiculous title, and would make an appearance in the strand. As it was, Watson was ignoring him, and all attempts of contacting the man had proved futile. It was infuriating. He was sat in front of a crackling fire, glass of port in hand, left alone with only his thoughts for company.

A knock at the door roused him. Not John. A woman. Not Mrs Hudson. She was visiting her sister. His lips quirked quizzically.

"Watson," he said as he turned his gaze to the door. "Does your husband know you're here?"

"No. He believes I am out with my Votes for Women campaign members." She strode into the room and stopped in front of her husband's chair, abandoned but still well maintained. "I see your time apart hasn't drastically affected your demeanor. Or the quality of your deductions."

"I was making deductions long before I met Watson." Holmes gestured for her to sit. "What have I done to be graced with your company?"

"I actually came to talk to you about my husband." She sat down in John's chair and smoothed out the skirt of her dress. "He hasn't been himself since you two returned from that seaside cottage you'd hidden yourself away in."

"Ah," Holmes swirled the contents of his glass. "How so?"

"We haven't had sex since our honeymoon," she stated bluntly, shocking the detective.

"Then I presume you were..." His eyes settled on her middle and he made some kind of wild gesture with his hands. "...impregnated during your honeymooning?" He watched as equal shock lit up on Mary's face. "Ah. You didn't know, did you?"

"Pregnant?" she gasped, her hands resting on her stomach. "Oh no. This... this can't be."

Holmes cocked his head to one side. "Am I ever wrong?"

"But I haven't had any symptoms," she complained. "We've been married for four months now. How have I not had any symptoms?"

"I am not a doctor," Holmes studied Mary carefully. "But I know that signs can differ from woman to woman. When was your last... bleed?"

"It was just before the wedding," she said, remembering. "I'd been nervous that I would be bleeding during the ceremony, but it stopped the day before. And when I didn't bleed again during the honeymoon I thought it maybe had something to do with the new environment or the rather frequent sex I was having. I never thought it was due to my being pregnant." She looked down at her stomach and sighed.

"John doesn't want children," she whispered. "What am I going to tell him?"

Holmes felt his eyebrows rise in surprise. "Surely he knew that by participating in... by having... by taking part in acts of sex, there was every chance that you would fall with child."

"Of course he knew. We'd tried to be careful, of course. But it would seem our efforts were in vain." She sighed and sat back in the chair, staring dejectedly into the fireplace. "What am I going to tell him? It's not that he doesn't want children, but he's never voiced wanting them, nor talked about having them."

"I'm afraid he doesn't get everything he wants. Besides, the deed is done, and it's not as though you can do much about it. In roughly eight months' time, you will give birth, whether Watson is elated or not."

"Six," she whispered. "I'll have to see a doctor. One who isn't my husband."

"Right. Yes. Of course." Holmes nodded. "What will you do now? You're not going to go home, I can tell that much. I shall not allow you to venture the streets alone. Not that you aren't capable." He paused. "I know perfectly well what you're capable of, but you are pregnant. You can't go gallivanting around London in your condition. You shall stay here in John's old room. I insist."

"I appreciate your kindness and concern, Holmes, but I couldn't stay in John's room. I should return home. But if you will insist on my not traveling alone, you could accompany me in a carriage to ensure I arrive safely."

Holmes shifted uncomfortably and looked at the contents of his glass.

"I...I'm not sure that's wise. Watson might see me. I'm afraid that I rather rubbed him up the wrong way."

"He won't see you if you stay inside the carriage," she said, rolling her eyes. "Good lord, you two are so immature. Either help me home or stay here to wallow in your self-pity."

Holmes sighed and placed his glass down.

"Very well. Since I by no means want to spend the rest of the afternoon wallowing in my self-pity, I will travel with you."

Mary nodded and stood with him, reaching out to grasp the top of John's chair to steady herself when a slight wave of dizziness came over her. Holmes moved quick as a flash and wrapped an arm around Mary to steady her.

"I'm rather afraid I've given you a shock."

"No, Holmes, it wasn't you," she said, waving him off her. "It's just the pregnancy. Get us a carriage. I'll meet you outside."

"You're as stubborn as your husband." Holmes sighed and let go of her. "Are you alright? You're not having a funny turn, are you?"

"No, Holmes. I'm fine," she assured him.

"If you say so." He turned and made his exit from the flat, grabbing his top hat so he was at least presentable. He raised his hand as soon as he was stood outside, beckoning a cab.

Mary gathered her wits about her and headed for the door as well, but not before grabbing the matchbook for a certain gentlemen's club and throwing it in her bag.

Once outside, the chilled air refreshed her and brought her balance back. She got in the carriage Holmes had summoned and sat across from him, smiling gratefully at him.

Holmes tilted his head, and his lips quirked quizzically. Mary had taken something from the flat, he was certain of it, but whatever it was wasn't important or big enough for Holmes to make a fuss. Mary was pregnant for goodness sake, a revelation that Holmes had rudely revealed. Pregnant woman supposedly did not think rationally. He leant back into his seat and smiled at her, quite amused by the way Mary was acting.

"Is something amusing?" Mary asked, Holmes' smile somewhat off-putting as he smiled so rarely.

"Am I not allowed to smile?" If anything this made Holmes smile more. "It's just been a while since I last saw you. I attended the wedding, but a few months have passed since then."

"Yes, quite a lot of time has passed, and so much has happened during that time," she mused.

"John will come around to the idea of being a father, don't you worry. He would never abandon his own blood. He is far too good, and kind for that. I presume that's what you're worried about?"

"Well, that's part of it, yes." She sighed and looked out the carriage window at the buildings and people they were passing by. "He's been different since our honeymoon. Since he went to the cottage to take care of you. But he refuses to talk about it. And it has me wondering what happened over there."

"What happened over there?" Holmes clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I had not been well. I was recommended a good course of cocaine and strong tobacco. John, strangely, agreed. He usually can't abide my cocaine habit. It appears... he may be an addict too. I don't know when that happened. I can't pinpoint the moment."

"What sort of addict?" she asked, her brow furrowing and her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "Did he use with you?"

"He... I may have encouraged him to join me."

"I knew it!" she cried, thumping her fist against the carriage seat. "No wonder he can't look me in the eye! He's guilty for using again when I told him not to!"

Holmes looked out one of the windows with a guilty look plastered to his features.

"Hence the breakdown in our friendship. This is my fault Mary. I put him through something he was reluctant to do in the first place. I did not want to be alone on my trip."

He felt Mary lean forwards, the sudden movement causing him to flinch. Instead of the slap he'd thought was coming, he felt a gentle hand on his face.

"Holmes," Mary said, voice gentle. "You and John really should talk about this. You can't let your friendship end because you used together. You make him a better man, and he makes you a good one. Please, speak to him?"

"It is not just the cocaine usage I tricked him into. Mary, I know you have suspicions about me, about the type of man I am." He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and buried his face in his hands. "Please don't hate me. I have sinned."

"Dear Holmes," she sighed, her thumb gently running back and forth over his cheek. "What have you done?"

Holmes flinched at the gentle touch, and the affectionate tone in Mary's voice. He felt guilt clench at his stomach. It felt like he'd taken a solid blow to his abdomen. All of his insides twisted and churned. What hadn't he done? In one night he'd ruined John and Mary's marriage, along with his own friendship with John.

He'd tainted John. Had ruined the man. He'd encouraged him to participate in homosexual activities! Good lord, Holmes deserved to be locked up. He deserved to be hanged for tainting good, dependable John Watson.

The colour drained out of his face, and his breathing became deep and uneven.

"Holmes? Holmes!" Mary began to panic slightly when she saw the drastic change within her husband's best friend. "Unless you want to faint in front of me, I suggest you regulate your breathing!"

No matter how hard he tried, Holmes could not calm the nauseating feeling that clutched at his gut, or the ragged breaths of sheer panic that barely managed to sputter from his lips. His chest felt tight. Constricted. He needed air. Needed to breathe.

"Stop the cab!" His voice didn't sound like him at all. It was bordering on hysteria.

He heard the sound of horses' hooves slowing down. He didn't wait for the cab to stop completely, and he tumbled out onto the stony cobbled floor, drawing in huge gulps of the smoggy London air.

His attempt at pushing himself up to a standing position failed, and he ended up stumbling about like a drunken fool. If only the world could stop spinning for a moment!

 _Control yourself, Holmes!_ he berated himself. What was wrong with him? Why had his emotions affected him so? Bah! Emotions? Useless things. Only found on the losing side.

Hopelessly, Holmes realised, he was currently losing, his body and mind caving in to terrible, painful emotions, as the past few months seemed to catch up with him all at once.

His whole world tumbled around him, and no matter where he turned his unfocussed gaze, he could make head nor tail of what was happening.

He could hear someone screaming for a doctor. Mary? Yes. That was Mary. Where was she?

The sound and impact of skull meeting stone flooring caused someone to scream. He wasn't sure if that had been himself, Mary, or another poor devil that had been passing by.

Then there was blood. It was everywhere. A lot of it. It soaked the cold ground beneath him, and it leaked from the right side of his head, trickling over his eyes and nose, and into his darkening vision.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Mary reconcile their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is very explicit hetero sex in this chapter. And a crap ton of feels. Consider yourselves warned.

Watson met Mary at the hospital after receiving her telegram. She'd said Holmes had passed out after going dreadfully pale and stumbling out of a moving cab. He'd hit his head, bled a considerable amount, and had been rushed to the nearest hospital for an emergency consultation.

Mary was pacing the floor outside the room he presumed was Holmes's.

"Mary," he breathed, taking her hands to still her pacing. 'What's happened? Is he alright? Are _you_ alright?"

"It was awful," Mary gripped her husband's hands tight. "Seeing him bleed like that. It was so sudden. There was nothing I could have done."

"Is he alright?" John asked, holding her closer. "He's alive?"

"He's alive. They cleaned up the gashes on his head a bit, but he's very weak. He's probably still sleeping."

John breathed out a deep sigh of relief. "Are we allowed to visit him?"

Mary nodded and began to gently lead her husband into the private room Holmes was being kept in.

"I've been waiting for you. For a moment I thought you were still being childish about your falling out with Holmes. I didn't want to see disappointment on his face when he wakes up, if you weren't here. I'm glad that you seem to have come to your senses."

Holmes was laid out in a hospital cot, paler than the sheets that covered him, with a thick bandage wrapped around his head injuries.

"Good God, Holmes," John breathed, completely ignoring Mary’s words. He went to the chair positioned by his friend's bedside and sat down, resting his hands in his lap. "What happened to you?"

"He got into a panic over something," Mary said, answering for Holmes. "We were talking about you."

"About me?" John looked up at his wife, taking her in for the first time since he'd arrived. She still looked rather pale and shaken herself, her hands clenched together in front of her breast.

"Come here," he said, beckoning her over. "You look like you've had quite a fright. Sit down, please?

Mary strode towards her husband, and lifting up her dress so she was able to sit comfortably, she sat down on his lap. It was the closest they had been since their honeymoon. John sighed and hugged her to him, smoothing a hand up and down her back.

"Are you alright, darling?" he whispered. "You look dreadful. Has anyone come by to check on you?"

"I'm—" She pursed her lips together, about to confess what Holmes had deduced earlier, but she then quickly decided that it was not the right now for such an announcement. "I'm fine, my love," she said, trying to reassure him.

"Are you sure?" he asked. He smoothed a stray curl out of her face and tenderly cupped her cheek in his hand. "You look a bit peaky. Do you want some water?"

"No." She swallowed and shook her head, her eyes settling on Holmes, rather than meeting her husband's gaze. "I assure you that I am quite alright."

"Mary." John cradled her chin in his hand and gently turned her to face him. "What's wrong?"

Mary found herself clutching onto her husband a little tighter. "I am worried," she said after a moment. "About the state of our marriage. You have drifted apart from me, my love. I'm worried that I'm losing you, so soon after our honeymoon."

John sighed and petted her hair. "I'm sorry, Mary," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I never meant to make you feel neglected. I just... I was rather having a small identity crisis and I didn't want to drag you along in the middle of it."

"Your love for Holmes, you mean?" Mary whispered, not wanting any doctors to hear, should they be passing by. "I know, my love. I am aware of everything."

John stiffened, his arms tightening around her.

"He told you, didn't he?" he whispered, looking at Holmes's prone form. "After he made me swear to never mention it again. He told you?"

"Holmes told me about your cocaine consumption, yes. He also said that he had tricked you into something else, that he had sinned. I found something when I visited him. A matchbox from a gentleman's club. The club it belongs to is notorious for certain kinds of men. I had my suspicions that you are one of those men, but I did not have solid proof until you admitted it to me now."

"No," John growled, pushing Mary away to stand up and pace the floor. "I am not a sodomite, Mary. It was one night. One time. I haven't done it since and I never will again. How _dare_ you even think I would be such a person! I've absolved myself of my sins, Mary. I've been forgiven by God but I don't think I can ever forgive myself. For my lapse in judgment, for my naiveté, for my betrayal." He looked down at Holmes, not daring to look at his wife. "How dare you accuse me of being a homosexual, of being an invert, when the 'evidence' you found was in Holmes's rooms, among his belongings, and nowhere near _me_ or our home together. That was quite a leap, my dear, even for a nurse of your intellect."

Mary took the seat John had been occupying and watched as he paced up and down the private room like a caged animal.

"There are rumours out there, John. Whispers in the wind. There are men who are said to be open to both of the sexes. Besides, I know that it isn't other men you're interested in. Just... Holmes. And why wouldn't you be? He's like a flame that makes everyone else into moths. You can't help but be drawn to him. Even I find him... appealing, should you take my meaning."

John stopped and stared at her, mouth hanging open in shock.

"You can't be serious?" he asked, looking between his wife and his best friend. "You would actually consider...? No. I won't allow it. And he wouldn't be interested. Trust me."

"The man is a bigger flirt than you!" Mary protested. "Besides, if he didn't feel comfortable with having sex with me, he wouldn't have to. I'm saying yes to you John. You have my permission to explore this, whatever it is. Take the chance whilst you can."

John stopped his pacing again and turned to stare at her again.

"How are you possibly alright with this? With me and... and another man? And _Sherlock_ of all men?"

"My love, you are clearly unhappy. You're off your food, off sex, and all you ever do these days is mope and get annoyed with our maid. I care for you, more than anything in this world, and I want your heart to sing with joy once more. If Holmes can make you smile then...I'm sure we can work something out. All three of us." She paused. "Of course, that is, if you still want me in your life. For many weeks I have been worried you will leave me; that you did not love me or care for me at all."

John hung his head and held his hands behind his back, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"I must admit I had my... doubts, about our marriage, after what happened between Holmes and myself. But you are just as important to me as he is. I do love you, Mary, and you will always hold a special place in my heart. But so will Holmes. But I feel I have room enough in my heart for both of you. If you are fine with that, then I'm sure the three of us can come to some sort of... agreement?"

"Come here, my love." Mary reached out her hand, beckoning him to her. He strode over to her and took her hands in his, smoothing his thumbs over her knuckles. Mary gradually placed one of her husband's hands on her right breast, her face remaining passive, but her eyes dancing with all sorts of mischief.

"Mary!" John gasped, shocked but intrigued at his wife's mischievous ways. "We can't do this here, by Holmes's bedside. Let us find somewhere more... private."

"Why?" Mary breathed. "What are you afraid of? The doctor's shan't come and check on Holmes for another half hour, and Holmes is asleep."

"Mary, please," John whispered. "I don't want our... reunion... to be a quick shag in my best friend's hospital room. Can we please find somewhere else where we might reacquaint ourselves with one another?"

Mary considered her husband's words for a moment, then nodded her affirmation.

"Let us go find a private room. It has, after all, been a long while."

"Far too long, my dear." He took her hand and they ventured out of Holmes's room, searching for one where they might be able to have sex in peace.

Mary tugged John into an unoccupied room. She shut the door behind them and placed a chair underneath the handle to ensure no one would be able to walk in on them. As soon as the room was secured, John pulled Mary to him and cradled her face in his hands.

"Mary—" was all he was able to say before she was kissing him, hot and hard and desperate. He moaned from the force of it and stumbled back a few steps before righting himself. Mary forced her husband onto the bed, kissing him until he was breathless.

"You are mine," she said. "Understood?"

"Possessive little minx," John growled, reaching for the laces of her bodice and untying them quickly and efficiently. Mary allowed John's hands to roam over her exposed breasts, her husband trying to remap them with the palms of his hand. Squeezing.  Fondling. Caressing.

John flipped their positions on the bed so Mary was beneath him. He kissed her deeply, the two of them moaning rather loudly as his hand slipped beneath the skirt of her dress, inching up toward her inner thighs. Mary guided her husband's fingers up to where she wanted, urging him to feel how wet she was.

"Good God, Mary," he groaned. He slid his fingers along her folds, dipping one inside while his thumb circled around her clitoris. "Fuck, Mary."

"Missed me?"

"God yes," he groaned, his finger pumping faster inside her, determined to make her mewl and shiver with need.

Mary's hands rose to cup her husband's face. Her moans turned into heated pleas for her husband's cock. It had been so long since they had made love, and she missed him, missed the way that their bodies fit together so perfectly.

"Yes. Fuck. Mary. Yes," John moaned. He pushed her skirts back and pulled her undergarments off, tossing them in a corner of the room. He got to work on his waistcoat and jolted forward a bit as Mary rather enthusiastically worked on freeing him of his trousers.

"I need you." She drew him out of his trousers and gave his cock a quick, enthusiastic stroke. John groaned and shuffled closer to her. His trousers were around his ankles, making it difficult to walk.

"Lie back on the bed," he ordered, though he tried to keep his tone soft. He knew Mary hated being bossed around in bed. "And get your skirts out of the way."

Mary hitched her skirts upwards and opened her legs, lying flat against the bed.

"John."

"Mary."

John crawled over her, having hitched his trousers up a bit so they were around his thighs versus his ankles, allowing him to move again. He captured her lips in a wet, searing kiss, one hand taking his cock and holding it still as he pushed inside his wife, the other grabbing one of her legs and pushing it back as far as it would go, opening her up to him. Mary gasped and braced herself. She stayed still for a moment, adjusting the feeling of John being inside her after so long. Her fingers clawed against his shoulders possessively and she scraped against his skin, leaving red marks to remind him who he belonged to. John groaned and fully sheathed himself inside her, his thighs trembling from holding back his orgasm even though he'd masturbated earlier that same day. Nothing really could compare to the tight, wet heat of a woman.

"Possessive little minx," he gasped when he felt the scratches Mary was placing along his back and arms.

"I can't help it, dear.  If I wasn't so you would wonder off." Her eyes flashed with mischief. "Right now, right here, you're mine."

"Don't apologise," he growled, nipping at one of the pert buds of her nipples. "I love it. Go on, dear. Mark me as yours."

She shivered in response to his mouth on her nipple. Since Holmes deduced her pregnancy she was hyper aware of how tender, and sensitive her breasts were already. Seeing as she was only in the early stages of pregnancy, she doubted if it had anything to do with that.  It was probably more to do with how long it had been since her last intimate moment with John.

As John's hands explored her body she wondered if he was able to feel any changes. Would he be able to tell that she was with child? He was a doctor, after all. His experienced hands had dealt with pregnant women before. Was she sporting a start of a bump? For a few weeks she'd assumed that she was just bloated, or gaining weight due to married life. Upon consideration that small change in her body shape was down to the life growing inside her.

John moaned, spurred on by his wife's shivers and needy moans. He gently thrust in and out at first, working up to a faster pace, but starting slow for the moment as it had been far too long since they'd last had sex. His hands roamed up and down her body, feeling the goosebumps along her skin and tweaking at her nipples, still moist from his saliva.

Was it his imagination, or were Mary's breasts perkier than the last time he'd seen them? And was she gaining weight? Perhaps she was just retaining water? Nearing her next bleed? He knew women's bodies tended to feel a little fleshier as they neared their monthly bleeding times. Perhaps that was also why she was more responsive to his touches.

Mary met John thrust for thrust, rotating her hips so that he was able to find new angles. His hands were stroking her stomach, like he was trying to work out a puzzle, and it looked like he was counting inside his head. Calculating something maybe? Perhaps counting back to her last known bleed?

No. It couldn't be. They'd been so careful.

John shook his head, dismissing the thought. Fixing the state of his marriage was more important than trying to figure out if his wife was merely bloated or with child.

He bent his head down and nibbled at her neck, leaving little love bites behind as he continued to pound into her. He thoroughly loved the noises she made when they made love (or fucked in this case). She was always so vocal.

Mary mewled and moaned wantonly as her husband ploughed into her. She could feel each twitch inside her, his cock warm and pulsing, and deliciously close. All the while his eyes looked distant. Like he was thinking deeply about something, his hands smoothing over her stomach in some form of unbidden examination.

No. She was definitely with child. There was no doubt about it. But it wouldn't hurt to get a second opinion from a midwife who was trained in this sort of area.

He put those thoughts in the back of his mind and returned his attention to his wife beneath him. She was staring at him, a mixture of pleasure and fear on her face. Fear? Why was she afraid?

"Mary," he started, but was quickly cut off with a groan. Mary had scratched at him again to distract him, and it was working. He slipped an arm under her hips and pulled her closer to him, his hips pounding into her harder and faster, determined to make her see stars when she found her release. But if she really was with child, she'd see stars no matter what as her body was over-sensitized to this sort of stimulation. He was shocked she hadn't found at least one release already. Though perhaps she had, albeit a small one that perhaps even she hadn't even been aware she'd had.

Mary was overcome with a mixture of pleasure and fear. She didn't know if John would want this child. Whether he was happy to be a father. Was he angry at her? Would he shout at her? Tell her she needed to find a way of getting rid of it?

She was pleasantly distracted by the movement of his hips, and the sound of skin hitting skin, but it didn't stop her racing thoughts. Within moments she was sobbing against John and shaking. From what? Pleasure? A release? Fear?

She wasn't sure.

"Oh, Mary," John sighed, holding her close. His hips stopped, his cock strongly protesting, but comforting his wife was more important. He pulled her up onto his lap, his penis sliding out of her but still resting between her legs.

"When did you find out?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.

"Today," she admitted, feeling numb. "Holmes... He deduced... He said that..."

"Oh, that bastard," John growled, but there was no malice or ill will in his tone. "I'll have to have a chat with him when he wakes up. And then we'll have to meet with a midwife to determine how far along you are."

"Right," Mary sniffled. "Then we can discuss options."

"Options? What sort of options? You don't want to get rid of it... do you?"

"Yes. It's logical. Neither of us want or are prepared for a child. There are ways to get rid of it, seeing as I am only in the early stages. We should act immediately."

"Why would you want to get rid of our child?" John asked, his hand smoothing over her lower stomach. "It's our child. Our first child. And the procedures you speak of are dangerous and illegal. You could end up dying after the procedure. Because the people who perform them are not trained medical professionals. I won't allow you to end our child's life, Mary. I won't stand for it."

"Do you honestly want this child?" she asked. "Our marriage is... failing. You pine for Holmes. You ignore me. Surely you do not, cannot, care for this child."

"Don't put words in my mouth or thoughts in my head," he growled, voice now stern. "I will admit I had my reservations about starting a family, but now that we've begun one I can't think of anything better. We will keep this child, we will raise it and love it and cherish it, and perhaps we'll have another if we feel the time is right. Who cares if I pine over my best friend? You and our family are who I come home to at the end of the day."

"I was terrified that you'd be angry at me. Perhaps blame me for the pregnancy? I suppose you think I'm stupid."

"No, Mary, I don't blame you for this," he murmured, petting her hair. "And I don't think you're stupid. We tried to be careful, but we probably got caught up in the heat of the honeymoon to really watch for your cycle. We're equally to blame for this unexpected pregnancy."

"I can't believe Holmes knew before either of us."

"Sometimes the man is too observant for his own good."

"He was worried about me. He insisted on escorting me home."

"Did he think you were going to get rid of the baby too?" John asked, still petting her hair.

"I don't know. He was just...concerned?" She laughed. "Imagine that. Holmes concerned about something other than murder."

"I don't have to," John said softly. "He's shown great care for children on our cases, as well as women in abusive relationships we've come across during the work. He cares about more than murder. He cares about me, and you, and those who are not able to speak up for themselves."

"I'm rather taken with Holmes. He's far too handsome for his own good, of course." John hummed in agreement, his cock pulsing between them.

"Yes. He is a handsome man," he murmured. "And much more experienced than I'd thought he would be."

"Not as innocent as he first appears?" She grinned like a minx. "I had my suspicions."

"Oh? And how did you come to suspect he was anything but innocent?"

"He's Mycroft's little brother," she said, as though that explained everything.

"Wait... Is  _Mycroft_  an invert as well?" John asked, his eyes wide.

"He owns the club that Holmes, the younger, attends. It's a club for very specific types of people. Mycroft was the one whom founded the club. What can we deduce from these facts?"

"That he's certainly of the homosexual variety."

"Though how he quite manages to participate in sex, is a wonder. He eats like every bite might be his last."

"That's his plan," John said solemnly. "He and Sherlock have a bet on when he'll effectively eat himself to death. Last I heard it was two years, eleven months, and four days."

"I'd say it's closer to two years, seven months, and three days."

"Oh god. Not you too." He groaned and rested his forehead on her shoulder. "Can we stop playing with death as if it's some bloody game?"

"This is Mycroft. Of course it's a game for him. He can't get out much these days due to his size. Betting on his life expectancy is the most fun he's able to have."

"Well I don't think it's fun," he scoffed. "I find it ludicrous and demeaning. Why bet on your life? Why choose to die so early?"

"Perhaps it enhances his sex life instead of hinders? It may have little to do with a bet." Mary stated matter-of-factly, lips tugging upwards in a smirk. "There are people who pay for larger gentlemen, you know."

John barked out a sharp laugh and shook his head. "There's no way Mycroft can participate in acts of intercourse in his condition. That amount of exertion at his weight and state of health might actually end up killing him. No. I think it's purely out of spite to take control of his life."

"Think he's trying to prove a point?"

"Most likely, yes."

Mary ran a finger along John's frown lines. "Your face will stick like that. Do smile. After all, your cock is still between my legs, and your hand is resting upon my breast."

A small smile pulled at John's lips. He looked down at his hand on his wife's breast and circled his hips between her thighs.

"Yes, they are, aren't they?" he mused. "Shall we do something about it?"

"Now that everything is out in the open, yes, of course.” She grinned and wiggled her hips. John grinned back at her and pinned her back down on the bed, easily sliding back inside her.

"Let's see if I can't make you climax twice more before I do," he purred, his hands cupping and squeezing her breasts as his hips began gently pistoning inside her.

"You're a bad man, John Watson," she gasped. "And a terrible influence."

"Yes," he growled. "But it's part of why you love me." His hand dipped under her skirts to seek out her clitoris again, stimulating it in time with his thrusts inside her. Mary gasped. Her heart stuttered in her chest. She was soon screaming and sobbing, this time definitely because of pleasure.

"That's it, that's it," John hissed. "Good girl. Oh, fuck, Mary. That's it. Cum for me."

"Only if you do, dear." Her breath hitched in her throat as John's hips began to falter.

"N-not yet," he grunted. "I said I wanted to make you cum twice before I did. That was one. I need one more from you, my dear."

"Mouth," she gasped out. "Use your mouth."

"A wonderful idea," he purred. He slid out of her, hissing a bit as his cock gave a throb of protest. He squeezed the base of it to stem off his orgasm for the time being. When he'd calmed down, he pushed the skirts of Mary's dress up past her hips, revealing her sex. A predatory grin spread across his face as he lowered his head to lick up her juices. Her hands immediately clung to his hair as he pleasured her. His mouth was warm and wet against her sex and his tongue crept into all of her sensitive spots. She mewled like a cat in heat, her abdomen clenching, as orgasmic pleasure ran through her. John moaned and focused his attention on her clitoris. He pleasured her with his fingers as well, sliding two inside her easily while his tongue worked on her little bundle of nerves. His face and moustache were getting soaked with her juices, but he didn't care. He could wash it off soon enough. Mary found herself begging John for mercy as she orgasmed, her body shaking with tremor after tremor.

"John, John, John!" She cried her husband's name in ecstasy, her hand tightening in his hair. John grinned and continued to pleasure her, determined to make her orgasm right after the first had subsided.

"John," she pleaded with him. "Please."

He finally relented and pulled back, keeping her skirts around her waist to see her better.

"Can I finish myself off inside you?" he asked, sliding his prick along her folds, soaking it in her juices.

"Oh my god yes. Please."

He grinned that predatory grin again and sunk himself inside her to the hilt. They both cried out and John hefted her up so she was sat on his lap. He held her tight, fucking into her with a reckless abandon, chasing his own orgasm. He was close. So bloody close.

"Think of Holmes," Mary gasped. "Making love with us. I want you to imagine that. Can you do that? Holmes moving inside you, whilst you move inside me."

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Yes, yes, yesyesyes," he panted. "Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! Gah!" He held Mary close to him as he came inside her, his mind completely blank apart from the image of Holmes's face as he too came.

Mary clutched John's shoulders so tight her fingers left bruises, shuddering around her husband's pulsing cock.

"Oh my god," John panted when his orgasm finally ended. His head was swimming, he felt heavy from the force of it. "I... I don't think... I've ever... cum so hard... in my life," he gasped.

"The image of Holmes being with us like that is... very erotic."

"God, yes," John panted, still trying to catch his breath. "You, Mary Elizabeth, are a blessing of a woman. I love you."

"A blessing, hmm? How so?"

"Not many wives in this time would be alright with her husband dreaming of fucking his male best friend."

"It doesn't have to be a dream. Holmes will be well enough to approach in a few weeks. We can proposition him then."

"I look forward to it." He smiled and pulled her closer for a kiss. "In the meantime, I think we should go to a midwife and determine just how far along you are."

"Two months, perhaps three, but no more than that."

"I still want to see a midwife," he said. "Even if you can accurately guess when you conceived. I may be a doctor, but I'm not a midwife. They're trained for this and really only call on a doctor in times of crisis. Such as breech births or a hemorrhage."

"And Holmes, doesn’t count, I suppose?"

"No, he most certainly does not count as he isn't a midwife either. The man is brilliant, but there are some situations in which trained professionals are needed. The birth of my first child is at the top of the list."

"He's pretty damn smart though, John. He worked it out before us, and it's our baby!"

"I'm surprised you didn't realize it given you haven't been having your monthly bleedings," John said. "It's your body, after all. But, then again, we were pretty occupied to truly notice if you were bleeding or not."

"I thought it was due to stress," she murmured.

"Even after we'd returned home?"

"Especially after we'd returned home."

"Oh. Right." His face fell a bit. "Because we weren't having sex. But, if you weren't having your monthly bleeds, you should have noticed or suspected seeing as we weren't having sex."

"Not just because of the sex. You were... distant. You didn't want anything to do with me. I thought that you were bored of me."

"I was scared," he admitted. "And ashamed. Of what I'd done with Holmes, of how I'd betrayed you. I was afraid that if I tried to make love to you... you'd know, or I wouldn't be able to go through with it. I'm sorry, love."

"So you have not grown weary of me then?"

"No, Mary. No. I haven't. I trust you haven't grown weary of me either?"

"I could never grow weary of you, my love."

"And after today, I can honestly say I could never grow weary of you either, my dear." He pulled her in for a kiss, hugging her close. "We really should get out of here before we're caught. And I'd like to stay with Holmes for a while before we go find a midwife."

"After he wakes, John. Not a moment before."

"You want to wait to get a midwife until after Holmes has woken?" he asked, his brow creasing in confusion. "It could be days, weeks even, until he wakes. Do you really want to wait that long?"

"It doesn't feel... right. We can't just leave him, John. He'll wake up scared, disorientated, and alone."

"No. No. You're right. He can't wake up alone." He sighed and pulled out of her, tucking his cock back into his pants. "Come on. We should go back to him."

"Indeed. Before someone cottons on to what we have been up to."

"Precisely." He kissed her once more before sliding off the bed. He pulled his trousers back up and pulled his braces over his shoulders. He found his waistcoat and jacket on the other side of the room and pulled them on. Mary's undergarments were there as well, so he picked them up and brought them over to her.

"Fancy dressing me?" Her lips twitched in amusement. "You had no issues with taking my garments off."

"Of course." He smiled at her and went over to help retie her bodice. "But I'll be careful not to tie it too tight now that we know you're carrying our child."

"I should probably purchase some new garments. Even these are a little tight. I thought perhaps I'd put on a little weight because of the stress. I didn't imagine..."

"We can purchase you a few new garments for you to wear during your pregnancy," John agreed. "And once Holmes has woken and we've met with a midwife we can make an announcement to our friends. That is if Holmes doesn't blab to everyone who will listen. The man is terrible at keeping secrets."

"He might surprise you. You shouldn't underestimate him."

"Oh, I never underestimate him," John said, smiling fondly. "But he still never ceases to surprise me."

Mary slid her hand into John's and squeezed fondly. "Let's go to his bedside; be with him."

John nodded. After checking the hall to see if anyone would see them exiting the room looking a lot less put together than they had when they'd gone in, they left the room together and went back to the private room Holmes was in.

He was still asleep, looking more at peace than John could ever remember seeing him.

"He's still so pale," Mary whispered. "More so than usual."

"I wish blood transfusions weren’t so damn risky," John sighed. “I wish there was more we could do for him."

"We can be there for him when he wakes. That's all we can do. Everything else is out of our hands."

"I know, I know," he said dejectedly. "I just hate feeling so useless." She squeezed his hand in agreement.

"He'll be OK."

John sighed and squeezed her back, holding her tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts: While blood transfusions were possible during the late 1800s, they were still extremely risky procedures as human blood types had yet to be discovered. It wasn’t until 1901 when the three human blood types (A, B, and O) were discovered, explaining why some people reacted badly to certain types of blood. The blood type AB was discovered in 1907. The positive and negative types were added to the blood types in 1940, and the red blood cell compatibility we have today was created. (All information found via Wikipedia)


	10. Chapter 10

Holmes was aware that he was not in 221B. He was not in his summerhouse either. Rather, he was in a darkened room that he did not recognise. His vision flickered in and out of focus, his surroundings not all too clear at first.

"Sherlock?" a familiar voice called out, soft and far away, like it was underwater. "Sherlock, are you coming back to me?"

"Watson?"

"Sher-- Holmes," John said, changing to his last name before a nurse or doctor could overhear him. He reached out and gently squeezed his friend's fingers. "Holmes. You're alright. Thank God."

"Miss me?"

"More than I can say," he whispered. "You gave us quite a fright. How are you feeling? Mary and the doctor told me you hit your head rather hard."

"I can't remember." Holmes frowned. " What happened?"

"Um... before I tell you, I need to tell your doctor you're awake. He'll want to check you over."

"You're my doctor," Holmes insisted.

"Not here I'm not," John whispered. "Here, I'm just a concerned friend. Back at Baker Street, however..." He smirked, his mustache twitching in amusement. "At home, I'll be whatever you want me to be," he whispered.

"I'll bear that in mind." Holmes glanced at the ceiling. "My head hurts."

"Mary said you had a rather nasty fall," John murmured. He waved a nurse down and told him to get the doctor in charge of Holmes. She nodded and scuttled away.

"They might prescribe you some whisky for the pain," he said to Holmes.

"I was in a cab. I...With Mary?"

"Yes," John confirmed.

"Where is your wife? Is she OK? Did something happen?"

"Easy, Holmes," John whispered, grabbing his arm to try and soothe him. "Mary is fine. She's at home, resting. And... the baby is fine as well."

Holmes tried to hide the look of relief on his face. Faling miserably, he said, "That's...good. I'm glad she is OK."

"You weren't really worried about her, were you?" John asked. "You were worried about the baby."

"I believe they come as a package deal."

"They certainly do." He smiled fondly. "I'll tell you more later. Here comes your doctor."

Holmes groaned loudly, as though pained. 

"Hello, Mr Holmes," the doctor greeted him. "And Dr Watson, vigilant as always. Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr Holmes. How are you feeling?"

Holmes groaned again in response.

"He was fine and talking just before you arrived," John told the man.

"Ah. So he's one of those impatient patients," he said, laughing. "Alright. Well, Mr Holmes, I need to ask you some preliminary questions first to see how much you remember. Can you tell me who our current royal ruler is?"

Holmes blinked. "No..." 

"He's never known who the political leaders are," John told the doctor. "King Henry VIII, Queen Elizabeth, Queen Victoria. It doesn't matter who's ruling. Holmes doesn't bother to remember them."

"Ah. Well then, Mr Holmes, can you tell me what year it is?" The doctor asked.

"Um..." Holmes frowned. His mind was telling him two different dates. It didn't make sense. 

"Take your time, Holmes," John said calmly. "You've... you've been in a coma for a few weeks. Your mind is bound to be muddled."

"I can't..." Holmes frowned, his voice trailing off."I don't know."

The doctor frowned and looked between Holmes and Watson. "OK. Tell me this: what's the last thing you remember?"

"I was with John's wife, escorting her home."

"John?" The doctor raised an eyebrow and looked at Watson. The man in question flushed scarlet and cleared his throat.

"Holmes has never been a... traditional man," he said. "The depth of our friendship has always bordered on the line of appropriate and impropriety."

"I-" Holmes stumbled on his words. "I apologise. My mind is not functioning at full capacity. I, of course, meant Watson."

"Understandable, given your head injury," the doctor murmured. "Now, tell me, what else can you remember? What were you doing before you escorted Mrs Watson home?"

"I don't know."

Holmes," John whispered in concern.

"No need to worry, Dr Watson," the doctor said. "It often takes a while for patients with head injuries to recall their memories. Mr Holmes will need to stay for observation, but his memories should return in time."

"I don't want to stay here. I want to go home."

"You need to stay for observation," the doctor said. "Head injuries as severe as yours are cause for great concern."

"I could watch over him," John offered. "I'm more than qualified to take care of Holmes. And I dare say I'm the only one with the patience to deal with such a petulant patient as he."

"If need be I can stay under Watson's watch at his own household, should that be more convenient."

"I'm more than capable of watching over him," John added.

The doctor mulled it over before eventually nodding. "Alright. But I'd still like to come visit once a week to check on his progress."

"I believe I can live with that."

"Then it's settled," John said, standing up to face the doctor. "I shall take Holmes home and care for him until he has fully recovered."

"When can I leave?" Holmes persisted. "Soon, I hope."

"I'll do a preliminary examination before discharging you," the doctor said. "And then I shall need the address of Doctor Watson so I may check up on you later this week."

"How long will that take?" Holmes snapped impatiently.

"Holmes," John groaned.

"I should be done with my examination in, oh, thirty minutes?" the doctor estimated. "And then you can be on your way."

"Tedious," Holmes sighed inwardly.

"Tedious as it may be, Holmes, it must be done," John told him. "Though I would appreciate it if you could do the examination quickly, Doctor. I'd like to get home and get Holmes settled so that I may take my wife to find a midwife."

"You heard him, doctor. Don't keep the man waiting!"

The man laughed and got to work. He did a quick examination of Holmes's base health, checking his pulse and blood pressure, before checking on his head and using a torch to check his pupil dilation.

"Everything seems to be in order," he said after he finished. "Though I recommend you keep off your feet for the first week and rest until I pop by to examine you again. Then we can determine a more accurate recovery date."

"I'm fine, of course." Holmes insisted.

"Best to check, just in case," the doctor insisted. "I'll fill out your discharge papers and put Doctor Watson down as the physician monitoring you. Then you two may leave."

"I'm fine," Holmes said again, weary of repeating himself.

"We heard you, Holmes," John said.

"You two can get ready to leave whilst I fill out the paperwork," the doctor said. "I'll pop back in in a few minutes."

"At last," Holmes sighed. "You see sense."

John gave him a stern look when the doctor left.

"You are the worst patient, Holmes."

"Am not."

"Oh, I think you most certainly are," John said, smirking at him.

"How so?"

"I don't think there's time to list all of that." He laughed good-naturedly at his friend and smiled his first real smile in days.

"Try."

"Let me give you a choice, Holmes. Do you want to stay here for another three hours whilst I list every single way you're a horrible patient? Or do you want to be released and go home with me?"

"The latter option sounds preferable."

"I thought you'd take that option." He stood up and smoothed out his trousers and suit jacket. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

"I may require assistance to get out of bed."

"I know." He got up and found a wheelchair and pushed it over to Holmes's bedside."Can you sit up? I can help you into the chair from there."

"I can certainly try."

John helped Holmes sit up once they found it too difficult for Holmes to do on his own. He eased him toward the edge of the bed and he slid into the chair.

"Let's get you home," he murmured gently.

"Am I to return to my house or yours and Mary's house?"

"I was hoping to take you to my home," John said. "That way I can watch over you and Mary both."

"And the baby," Holmes added.

"And the baby," John agreed.

"And the baby is doing well?" Holmes asked Watson. "Everything is progressing normally?"

"As far as we can tell, yes, everything seems to be fine," John assured him. "Though Mary has refused to see a midwife until you woke. She was dreadfully worried about you. Didn't want you to wake up alone after what happened. So we took turns keeping watch over you."

“That was…considerate of her."

"I'd protested, of course," he said, a soft smile gracing his features. "But she'd insisted. And won."

"She's as stubborn as I am. I suppose that's just what you like, isn't it?"

"I do prefer people with fires in their hearts," he agreed. "I don't like pushovers. They make for dull company."

"If I remember correctly, you like people with fire in other areas too."

"Shhh, Holmes," John whispered, scolding him softly. "Just... be quiet until we get you home."

Holmes grinned at Watson in a positively predatory manner. "Oh?" He said. "And what waits for me there?"

"Bed-rest, Holmes. You've suffered a concussion. We won't be doing anything strenuous..." He paused and glanced around them, making sure they wouldn't be overheard. Once he deemed them safe, he bent down to whisper in Holmes's ear, "Will sucking your cock suffice until then?"

Holmes turned positively beetroot. "Is that wise, Watson?"

"Mary doesn't mind," he whispered. "We can discuss it further at home, but Mary has given us her... blessing."

"I'm not sure that is an usual arrangement between a husband, a wife, and their friend."

"Probably not. But when have we been anything but usual?" John asked.

"Well, I suppose when you put it that way," Holmes grinned broadly at Watson.

John grinned back at him and took him outside, the outside air hitting them as a strong gust of wind nearly pushed them back inside the stale air of the hospital.

Holmes immediately began to shiver in response to the cold air, teeth chattering.

John managed to flag down a cab and helped Holmes climb inside where it was warmer. He gave the driver his address and they were soon trotting along down the cobbled streets.

"Here, Holmes," he said as he shrugged off his coat. "Put this on."

Holmes gratefully accepted Watson's coat and put it on. He clutched the material and pulled it tight around him until he started to warm up.

"Better?" John asked

Holmes snuggled further into Watson's coat and smiled at the man sitting opposite him.

"Much," 

"Good." He smiled at his companion, wishing he could reach out and take his hand. "We should arrive in ten minutes or so. Why don't you rest?"

"I'd rather rest properly when we reach your residency."

"Ah. A much better idea than resting in a cab."

"Yes. I'll be much more comfortable in your bed than sleeping in a cab."

John coughed and flushed scarlet.

"Right. Well, Mary may have something to say about that when we get home."

"Oh yes. Your wife. I have a lot to say to her."

"Oh? What do you need to discuss with her?"

"I think you know perfectly well what I need to discuss with her." Holmes raised an eyebrow. His tone of voice was bordering on flirtatious.

"Ah. Right. Yes. Of course." A soft blush dusted John's cheeks. "Somehow I keep forgetting about it."

"Don't play coy, Watson."

"I'm not playing."

"Oh?" Holmes leaned forwards. "Is that so?"

"Not here, Holmes," John whispered, gently pushing him away. "At home. Where we have privacy."

"I don't know what you mean, Watson." Holmes said nonchalantly.

"Don't play coy, Holmes," John said, mimicking him from earlier.

"I'm definitely not playing."

John smirked at him. "Good."

"What did your wife say exactly?"

"About us?" John asked, keeping his voice low in case the cabbie overheard.

"Of course. what else?"

"Oh, I don't know. The pregnancy perhaps?" John asked. "She told me you were the one to deduce it."

"That I was. The woman herself seemed oblivious. I assume, as the father, you must have suspected."

John swallowed and turned away from his dearest friend. "We hadn't been around one another for quite some time after I came back from the cottage," he murmured. "I didn't see."

"You're a doctor."

"Which is why I feel like an idiot for not noticing the signs," he whispered. "Why didn't I see?"

"Perhaps you didn't see because you're an idiot?" Holmes answered mockingly.

John glared at him, but his anger didn't last long. The look on his friend's face as he tried not to laugh made him start to giggle. Soon they were guffawing like hyenas in the back of the cab, holding onto their sides to hold themselves together.

"You should have seen your face!" Holmes barked loudly.

"You're a right git, Holmes," Watson said between giggles.

"I'm certain that's why you are fond of me."

"Partially, perhaps."

The sound of the carriage pulling up notified Holmes that they had arrived at their destination.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

"Let me pay the fare and then I'll help you out, alright, Holmes?" Watson said as he opened the carriage door. "I don't want you overexerting yourself."

"Of course not, doctor."

"Good man." He patted his hand and exited the cab to pay the driver. Once that was settled, he went back to Holmes and they were able to get inside the Watson household without too much trouble.

"Shall I have the guest room made up for you?" John asked once they were inside.

Holmes fixed his intense, blue gaze on Watson. "If that's what you think is best."

"Don't look at me like that, Holmes," John tsked gently. "You're making it entirely too difficult to let you go as it is. I don't need that look in your eyes making it worse."

"Then don't let me go."

John sighed and his arms tightened around his best friend's torso. "Fine," he murmured. "But... if you want me to stay with you, we won't go to the guest room. I'll take you up to mine."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Um..." John paused and looked around as if he'd dropped something. "No?"

"Your pregnant wife?"

"She's out for the day."

"Have you learned nothing Watson? Your wife is not out. Even a half brained monkey is capable of deducing that."

"I know where she goes when she lies to me, Holmes," John growled. "I've followed her myself as well as had some members of your homeless boys watch her for me. She goes to the Diogenes to visit your brother. She's been spying on us for God knows how long. Our whole relationship was probably an act from the start. Which is why I am so inclined to join you in sin, regardless of my vows and my wife's pregnancy. She betrayed me from the start. Now it's my turn."

Holmes struck Watson straight across the nose, a scowl written into his features. The man reeled back in shock more than pain.

"I may have just awoken from a head injury, but I will not allow you to act in such a vindictive, nasty, belittling way. I expect better of you. The man I first met had the heart the size of a lion, and was brave. Now your words are cowardly, as is the treatment of your wife. It won't stand, you know."

"The man you met was a scared, lonely, naïve fool!" Watson growled, his hand pressed against his nose as it started to bleed. "I may still be lonely, but I'm not scared anymore. I've grown in the years I've known you, and Mary. You've both taught me so much about the world. About how it's filled with cheaters and liars and murderers. I had always tried to remain positive, but the world finally won. I was beaten, Holmes. The dark finally swallowed the light. I don't care anymore. About anything or anyone. I'm not the same John Watson you met all those years ago in the morgue. That John Watson is dead."

Nonsense! That John Watson isn't dead. He's still you. I refuse to believe that the man I met is gone. Please don't talk such utter twoddle." 

"Then you're as naive as I was."

Holmes huffed, turning away from Watson. “I just think that you should look after Mary. She’s carrying a whole new life, John. That’s precious, human. Hold onto that."

"I will, but right now I want to hold onto you." He reached out and took his friend's hand, attempting to pull him closer. "Please, Holmes. Just... let us have this."

"Watson," Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "Please don't make me do this. What you're asking of me makes me feel deeply uncomfortable."

John scowled and dropped his friend's hand like a lead weight.

"You came onto me at the cottage, Holmes. You weren't deeply uncomfortable then. You don't get to play with me like this. Give me an identity crisis and then deny me the pleasure of exploring the one man's body who I know won't report me to the authorities. You don't get to do that."

"You abandoned me." Holmes said, tone sad. "We haven't spoken in weeks. I have just come out of hospital."

"I was working, Holmes. I'm still a doctor. Or did you forget?"

"A visit would have been nice."

"So would a telegram."

“I sent you telegrams. Don’t pretend like you don’t know that. They’re lying on your desk plain as sight. How funny, I don’t remember receiving a reply.”

John cocked an eyebrow and turned to look at the stack on his desk."I don't understand," he muttered. "Those weren't there this morning."

“You have been avoiding me, Watson. It pushed me to the brink of what I can only describe as a mental breakdown. If it wasn’t for your wife I’d still be laid out on the street with a bashed in skull."

John scowled and turned to glare at him. "If it wasn't for my /wife,/ I'd have seen your telegrams and answered them. She's obviously been keeping them from me. She's always been jealous of our friendship, of how close our companionship is. She's been trying to sabotage us from the start. I don't care what she told me after you'd been brought to hospital. She hates our relationship together."

“You’re a terrible liar, Watson. Why are you lying? Out of guilt? Do you blame yourself that I lost my mind?"

"I blame myself for a lot of things, Holmes."

Suddenly Holmes was ten shades paler.

"I'm suddenly feeling not quite like myself, Watson."

John instantly helped him lie down, fully entering doctor mode.

"Thank you, Watson." 

"Does anything feel abnormal? Any pain? Dizziness?"

"A little dizzy." Holmes closed his eyes tight. The whole room appeared to be spinning.

When he opened his eyes, however, he was no longer in Watson's home. He was sat in his brother's office, staring at a colossal Mycroft.

* * *

 

  
"Brother mine, how did I get here?

"The how is not important, Sherlock. It is the why. As in, why did you deign to see me when you should be back in Doctor Watson's care?"

Holmes rubbed at his head and cringed when he felt a a hot, sharp pain in his head. "I can't...I don't...remember." 

"I don't doubt it." He huffed and placed his meaty hands on his enormous stomach. "Tell me, Sherlock, did you make a list?"

His eyes scanned his brother and flickered up to greet the man's sharp, questioning eyes. He decided to ignore Mycroft's question. "You've gained weight."

"You're stalling," Mycroft said flatly. "A list. Did you make one?"

"You've definitely gained weight," Sherlock persevered. "Though is it any wonder? Your ever expanding backside is permanently glued to your seat. "

"Hmm. Yes. It would seem my three years will soon become two. Now, tell me, did you make a list?"

Holmes reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He turned it in his hands, a soft contemplative expression on his face.

"Good boy," Mycroft said almost condescendingly.

Holmes stood up and walked over to Mycroft. He held the paper out to him. "Here you are, brother mine." 

Mycroft reached out to take it, but Sherlock quickly snatched it away again. "I'm not done yet." 

"Do you honestly think you need /more,/ Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, his voice taking on a tinge of worry. "I'd say you've rather had enough already."

“I’ll be the judge of that, Mycroft.”

"Yes. I most certainly believe you will," he sighed, voice sad and soft.

"I just need more time. There’s only one way to ensure I have that time. You know that, brother mine."

"Yes. Unfortunately I do." He sighed, his massive stomach barely shifting. "All I ask is you be safe about this. Please. We don't want to lose you."

"You could at least allow me to have an enjoyable time whilst I'm here. Perhaps I'll attend your club. We could attend together, hmm?"

"Goodness, no, Sherlock. I couldn't. You know I can't. But do enjoy yourself should you visit."

"Nonsense. I insist that you come with me." Holmes persisted. "Please. It shall do me the world of good."

"I'm sure it will. Do have fun, but I can't come with you. Too much to do."

"Mycroft," Holmes continued. "You are in my mind. You shall join me or I will delete all memory of you."

"You wouldn't dare," Mycroft growled.

"I would. Including childhood memories. Get up or I shall do it!"

"Make me thinner and able to move properly and I will."

"Consider it already done."

Mycroft sighed and stood up, smoothing his suit down over his flat stomach.

"Thank you, Sherlock. That feels much better."

"There," Holmes said with a fond smile. "Almost like the real thing, hmm?"

"Still a bit heavy for my liking, but it will do." He stood up straighter and brushed back his hair. "Now, shall we?"

Holmes nodded curtly. "Lead the way, brother mine."

Mycroft grabbed his umbrella from beside his chair and headed out to the streets, the dream world easily allowing them to arrive at the gentleman's club in moments.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

“I need a distraction. Pick me out a suitable suitor.” Holmes looked across at his brother with hooded eyes. “Come now, brother. It’ll be just like the old days. Prior to you getting far too busy and important to attend this club with me."

Mycroft sniffed haughtily and scanned the room. There were plenty of men in the room, quite a few of them anxious and scared as it was their first time. But Mycroft was honing in on a tall gentleman with blonde hair, standing at the bar nursing a drink whilst smoking a cigar.

"I believe he shall do for the evening," he said, drawing his brother's attention over to the man.

“He looks like the dark, brooding type. I’d dare say you’ve made an excellent pick."

Mycroft smirked knowingly.

"He looked like your type. I do hope you two have fun. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have my eye on the silver haired gentleman in the corner." He tipped his top hat before striding off to speak to his own prey for the evening.

The younger Holmes watched as as Mycroft faded into the crowd of gentlemen. His eyes flickered towards the man that his brother had picked out for him and he made eye contact with him. With a long, slender finger he beckoned the man over.

The man smirked and picked up his drink, keeping the butt of his cigar between his teeth. He sauntered over to him, stopping just in front of him.

Up close, the man was taller than he seemed at the bar. At his full height, he was almost as tall as Sherlock, if not an inch or two taller. His hair was combed back, he had piercing blue eyes, and the sharpest cheekbones (apart from Sherlock's, of course).

"Good evening," he said, his accent posh but not elitist.

“Good evening. I’m Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard my name circulating around the club.” Holmes held out his hand for the man to shake.  

"Mr Holmes," the man said, shaking his hand. "The same Holmes who's a private detective?"

"The one and the same. My brother, Mycroft, founded this club. It’s especially made for men like you and I, should you take my meaning.”

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean." The man grinned and drank in Holmes, running his eyes from top to bottom and back up again.

"I have chosen you for tonight's pleasure. I need a distraction. "

"I feel honored," the man said, smirking devilishly. "I rather pride myself on my ability to provide the best distractions. Shall we get some drinks before we head into a room?"

"No." Holmes said firmly. "Alcohol can lower sexual desire. I want you sharp and observant."

"Oh, trust me, I'm always sharp," he said, gesturing to his suit. "And I'm/always/ observant." He gulped down the rest of his drink and sat it on a passing waiter's tray. "Shall we?"

" Yes. We'll head to my private quarters."

"Wonderful." The man smiled, making him look almost predatory. "Lead the way, Mr Holmes."

Holmes nodded and began walking towards his private room, the man following close behind.

 

The man was ushered into the last room at the end of the long hallways of playrooms. He stepped inside and Holmes shut and locked the door behind him.

"So," the man said, turning to look at Sherlock. "What do you have in mind tonight? Do you want to be in control, or will you let me wreck you?"

"I'm afraid I don't allow anyone to 'wreck me'. I am the one who is in control. Always. Accept that and we'll get along pleasantly."

"I go either way," the man said. "But will I be allowed to penetrate you? Because I would love to do that."

"We'll see how the night turns out, shall we?" Holmes walked over to a chest of drawers and pulled out his trusty whip. "Let's start with you on your front on the mattress." 

"Naked?" He asked as be moved toward the bed.

"Obviously."

The man smiled and quickly stripped out of his suit, folding the garments carefully and placing them on a chair so as not to wrinkle them. He climbed onto the bed and laid down on his stomach, awaiting the first strike from the whip.

"Safe word?"

"Cinnamon."

"Cinnamon?" 

"Cinnamon."

"Brace yourself."

The man pulled his muscles taught, waiting for the first strike.

"Fuck!" he cried when Holmes' first blow landed across his shoulders, a lot harder than he'd anticipated.

"Language." Holmes scolded as he brought down his whip again in the exact same spot.

The man cried out again and bit his lip to keep from swearing. "S-sorry, sir," he gasped.

Holmes slowly dragged the whip sensually along the man's spine, the he brought it down hard on the man's left bum cheek.

He gasped and groaned at the contact, gripping the sheets hard.

"Oh, thank you, sir," he moaned.

"Where do you want it next?" Holmes asked, his voice a deep rumble against the mans ear.

"Where ever you deem fit, sir."

Holmes scanned his eyes over the mans body, appreciating the masculine form that was displayed in front of him. He allowed the tip of his whip to caress various outlines of the muscles beneath the mans unblemished skin. Then, when he was quite satisfied with exploring various parts of the body, he began to smack the gentleman’s thighs. At first each stroke was tender and teasing, but then they gradually built, and each strike became more powerful than the last.

It reminded him of the time Watson had first met him. He had been running an experiment on a corpse by hitting it repeatedly with a whip. What a sight that must have been. He wished that he could go back to that moment in time to gauge Watson’s reaction more accurately. Before Mary. Before the fall. Before feeling like he had been pushed out of Watson’s life completely.

* * *

 

The scene changed abruptly, the man on the bed being replaced by a corpse on an examination table, and the whip replaced with a cane. The room darkened, the walls became solid brickwork, and water dripped from the ceiling.

The telltale pattern of a cane hitting the floor in time with limping footsteps echoed down the hall.

"It's an experiment, apparently," the voice of Michael Stamford said to the guest. "Determining how long after death bruising is still possible."

"Is there a medical point to that?" John asked.

"Haven't the foggiest," Stamford said.

"Right. So... where is this friend of yours?" John made to walk further down the hall but paused when he didn't hear Stamford following him. He turned around and saw he had stopped by the door leading into the mortuary. His mouth hung open momentarily (was he crazy?) before he made up his mind and followed him into the room.

Holmes was lost in whipping the corpse, each smack more violent and urgent than the last. He paid no attention to who had just walked through the door.

"I do hope we're not interrupting," John said, settling beside Stamford to watch the man beat the corpse with incredible force. He was intrigued and slightly disturbed, but he had to admit it was fascinating to watch.

Holmes looked up and froze when he saw Watson. This had all happened before.

"I-" he flailed for the right words. He didn't want history to repeat itself. He had to make this different somehow. 

"Doctor John Watson," Stamford said, gesturing to the man beside him, "Mister Sherlock Holmes," he said, gesturing back to him.

"Stamford, I want you to leave us alone."

"Oh? Alright. If you insist. Watson, give me a ring if you should ever wish to catch up."

"Thank you, Stamford. I will." They shook hands before Stamford departed, leaving Holmes and Watson alone together in the mortuary, apart from the corpses that is.

"Come a little closer. I don't bite. "

Watson stood up straighter and approached the strangely intriguing man. He couldn't make out much in the dark light of the mortuary, but he could tell the man had a certain glint in his eyes that would either spell trouble or something more.

"Closer." Holmes beckoned. "I want to see you, Watson."

Watson stepped closer so they were nearly toe-to-toe. The light now brightened up Holmes' face, casting shadows that made him look even more mysterious.

"You know, don't you? You've known from the very beginning."

John smirked and stood straighter, dropping his cane on the table beside them.

"I'm a story teller, Sherlock. I know when I'm in one."

"If this is a story then how- how did I get here? "

"I think you already know the answer to that," John said softly, his eyes sad.

"Oh." Holmes nodded solemnly. "And going by the fact we've been part of this story for a long time now, I can only assume...something went wrong."

"I would say so, yes," John said. "Either you're in surgery, or in a coma."

"How...I mean, is waking up even an option?"

"Of course," John said. "Just... not yet."

"If not now, when?"

"That's up to you," John told him. "All I can do is make your time here more enjoyable."

"I've done it again, Watson. I left you alone. The other you. He'll be so mad at me."

"The other me in the other place?" John laughed and shook his head. "Well, if he's anything like me, and I would hope he's better, then he won't be mad. Disappointed? Yes," he conceded. "Relieved that you're OK. Yes. But mad? No."

"When I returned from the fall he didn't speak to me for weeks. I'm afraid I may receive the same treatment."

"That was a completely different scenario and you know it." John stepped closer and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze. "This isn't about you faking your death. This isn't even on the same spectrum."

"Isn't it?" Holmes asked. "I betrayed his trust by taking the drugs, I almost left him with the overdose, and my actions are just as equally selfish." 

"They're similar, but different," he said. "You still endangered your life, but you didn't lie about your death this time."

"No. I just assured that this time I'd die for real."

John's smile became sad, and he squeezed Sherlock's shoulder again.

"And yet here you are, fighting for your life."

"I wasn't ready to say goodbye."

John smirked knowingly. "Is that all?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Holmes narrowed his eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm inside your head. I know everything you're thinking or have ever thought. You can't lie to me."

"Lie? I'm not lying about anything."

"Well, you can't evade the issue at hand then," John said stubbornly. "But right now we need to focus on getting you better from the inside out. You can take us to the heart of the matter, and I'll help you."

"The heart of the matter? Watson, must you speak in such a cryptic fashion?"

"I mean your actual heart, Holmes." His nose wrinkled up and he sighed. "And can we please stop from calling each other by our last names? Such a dreadful business."

“He calls me Sherlock.” Holmes said poignantly. “The way he says my name hurts. Please stick to Holmes for now.”

"Alright, Holmes," John said softly. "Alright."

“So, the heart of the matter is my heart? I need to…get to my heart?”

"Yes," Watson said, nodding. "That's where the worst damage is. We'll start there and work our way out from there."

“Physical damage, you mean?”

"And emotional damage. You've always been vulnerable to matters of the heart. And you've been able to block it out for years. But now... now it's different."

"This is going to hurt, isn't it?""

"Yes," Watson said honestly. "But I promise to be here with you every step of the way."

"Well then, let's begin, shall we?"

Watson nodded and held out his hand for Holmes to take.

Holmes took the offered hand and squeezed it so tightly he was afraid Watson's hand might just break.

Watson squeezed back just as tightly, smiling up at his companion. "Let's begin."

"I don't know how."

"You'll have to figure it out," John said. "This is your Mind Palace. I'm afraid I can't help from here."

"You're John Watson. John is my heart. You must know how to get there. Take me."

John sighed and nodded. He took Sherlock's other hand and squeezed it.

"Do you trust me?"

"With all my heart? Yes Watson, I do."

"Good."

He pulled him forward, cupping his face in his hands, and kissed him full on the mouth.

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Holmes leaned into the tender kiss, his hand moving up to run through Watson's hair.

John gasped, deepening the kiss and pulled Sherlock closer to him, their bodies touching in every place they could reach.

"We've moved."Holmes whispered."Are we there?"

Watson reluctantly pulled away, his face flushed and his breathing a bit erratic, and looked around.

"Yes," he said, still panting a bit. "This is it."

"The pain hasn't started yet."

"Were you expecting pain?" John asked, running his thumbs over his cheekbones as Sherlock's head was still cradled in his hands.

"You told me to expect pain. You said there would be physical and emotional damage here."

"To your body, not your mind," John clarified. "I'm sorry. I should have been more clear. Here, in your mind palace, you shouldn't be able to feel a thing." He paused. "Hopefully," he amended.

"Oh. So the pain will hit when I wake up?"

"Yes. And the closer you are to waking, the pain will begin to seep into your mind palace as you slip out of a coma."

"Where do we start? How do I begin to wake up?"

"Holmes, I can't give you the answer to everything," John said. "I'm just an extension of your consciousness. I only know what you know. It's all up to you from here."

"What if I were to...will myself awake?"

"Like you did when Mary shot you?" John sighed and hung his head, smoothing his hands down Holmes' shirt lapels. "Yes, Holmes, I know. I'm inside your head. I know everything you do. And I know what you went through in Magnussen's office, the ambulance, on the operating table, and after you'd broken out to bait Mary back at Baker Street. I wish I could have taken that pain away. I wish I could have helped. But you didn't turn to me for help. You went to someone you could trust. Someone you knew wouldn't betray you. ... Your childhood pet."

"Redbeard." Holmes closed his eyes, exhaling the word painfully. "I need to go to him."

"Right. Of course." Watson pulled away and stepped back a few paces. "He'll be able to help you. Keep you calm."

"Calm...I need to be calm. I'll go into shock when I wake up. If I'm not calm I could go into cardiac arrest."

"Precisely," Watson said softly. "Go to Redbeard. He'll keep you calm. I'll leave you be."

"No. I don't want you to leave. You can come with me."

"Oh?" Watson perked up a bit, standing straighter. "Alright, Holmes. If you insist."

"I do. Redbeard isn't the only thing to keep me calm."

Watson smiled and took Holmes's hand, squeezing gently but firmly.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Be brave Watson." 

"I'm always brave," he whispered, pulling Holmes close.

"I said that to assure myself more than anything."

Holmes rubbed his hand along Watson's back, trying to find some comfort in this moment of dire need.

"C'mere," John whispered, pulling Holmes down into a deep, tender kiss.

Both men sighed wistfully and John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist as the other slid up to cradle the back of his head, sliding through his slicked back hair that slowly began to soften back into curls.

"Oh." Holmes reached up and ran his hands through his thick, black curls. "I'd forgotten what the real me is like."

"I remember," John whispered, running his hands through Sherlock's curls. "Your gorgeous curls, your suits, that purple shirt." He moaned and sucked a possessive mark just below Sherlock's ear.

Holmes tilted his neck so that Watson could kiss there too. Gradually he noticed that he resembled modern day Sherlock.

"Thank you," he whispered. 

"My pleasure," John moaned, back to his modern self as well, complete with oatmeal jumper. "Shall we continue this... exploration?"

"As much as I would appreciate that, my main focus is getting back to the real world. I've been unconscious for far too long."

"Of course," he whispered. "How do you want to do it?"

"I'll find Redbeard, them I'll take myself back to the baker street in my mind. I need to go home."

"OK." John stepped back again but held on to Sherlock's hand. "Let's go home."

The soft sound of a dog whining perked Holmes up and he span around so fast it was a wonder he didn't suffer from whiplash.

"Redbeard! Come here boy! That's a good boy! Come here." 

A gorgeous Irish Setter ambled toward them, practically leaping up into Sherlock's arms and licking his cheeks, his nose, his neck, everywhere he could reach.

"They're putting me down now too." He sniffled miserably. "It just isn't fair is it boy?"

The setter whined and licked at the tears falling down Sherlock's cheeks. John knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"It's time to go home, Watson." Holmes sniffed and wiped his sleeve against his damp cheeks. 

Watson wiped some stray tears away with his scarf. He cupped Holmes's cheek and turned his face to look at him, a soft smile on his face, his thumb stroking across his cheekbones.

"Let's go home, Holmes," he whispered.

Closing his eyes, Holmes pictured 221b Baker Street, and began to build a three dimensional image of it in his mind.

The texture of the wallpaper under his fingertips, the bullet holes in the smiley face, the smell of dust and gunpowder and body parts stuffed in the fridge near the bagged salad. 

The scenery changed around them, the hard floor turning into plush carpet. A fire crackled in the hearth, warming them. Redbeard instantly went to lie down in front of it.

Sherlock reached out and touched the skull that sat above the fireplace. His fingers slipped over the smooth surface of bone and he smiled fondly as he remembered the first time John had seen the skull. It was a fond memory that he kept stored safely in his mind palace.

"Is that a skull?" John asked, the memory echoing around them. The other John smiled and looked at the mantle as the stack of letters appeared, the knife landing with a THWACK as it pinned them to the wood.

His memories flickered before his eyes, time fast forwarding to the moment he made the choice to overdose on the plane. He began to twitch and shake as reality started to drag him forcefully into consciousness.

He could hear the various sounds of a hospital. The beeping machines. The murmur of doctors and nurses talking amongst themselves. He was aware that his heart was beating too fast and that he was tipping into a cardiac arrest.

A scream ripped from his throat and suddenly there was shouting and urgent yells from close by. His whole body thrashed violently and he very nearly tumbled out of the hospital bed he was in because he started to seize so badly.

Those noises began to fade as the pain in his chest grew but then he felt a series of shocks from the paddles and his heart began to beat at a slower but more stable rate. 

"He's stabilizing," a nurse said to the doctor.

"Good. Let's keep an eye on him for the next 48 hours. If he's coming out of this, he'll need around the clock care to make sure his body doesn't shut down."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll notify his emergency contact. Take down all his vitals every hour for the next 24 hours."

"Yes, sir." The nurse immediately went to work. The doctor left to head to his office to make the call. He collapsed into his chair and ran his hands through his thinning hair, catching his breath for a moment. His hand plopped down by the phone, the neon yellow sticky note with the immaculate handwriting on it glaring up at him. He sighed and picked up the phone, dialling the number.

"You've reached the office of Mr Holmes," a feminine voice said on the other end of the line. "How may I direct your call."

"He's awake," was all the doctor said before hanging up, as per the instructions the brother had given him. He waited for the brother to call back, his fingers tapping impatiently on his desk.

* * *

 

Mycroft looked up from his desk as Anthea burst through without knocking. He was rather glad of the distraction. He'd been staring at paperwork for hours now, his mind too occupied by his worries for Sherlock to actually take on board any information. 

"He's awake," she said, skipping the formalities.

Mycroft tried to keep his expression as neutral as possible as he stood. His elegant hands twitched into loose fists and he nodded curtly.

"Thank you for informing me. Please send a message to his doctor and tell him to send across a full update of his condition immediately. I will then need you to hire a car to take me to the private facility that my brother is being taken care of in."

 

"Yes, sir," she said with a nod. She turned out of the room, closing the door behind her, and set about the duties her boss had given her.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock gently ebbed in and out of consciousness. He was aware that his body ached with the abuse it had received and there wasn't one part of him that didn't seem to hurt. He wasn't currently being given strong painkillers because of his known drug use, so he was left to suffer in silence.

When he next opened his eyes he was greeted with the sight of Mycroft staring down at him, stern lips pressed together. Instead of shouting at him or demanding him to leave, Sherlock found himself trying to reach out to Mycroft with a pale and trembling hand. But as per usual the elder Holmes was cold and indifferent, and instead of taking Sherlock's hand, he withdrew. 

Mycroft went to the door of the private medical facility and waved a nurse down.

"He's fully conscious," he told him. "Get the doctor."

Sherlock groaned and tried to sit up,pulling at the various wires attached to him. Mycroft's eyes went wide and he immediately rushed to Sherlock's side and pushed him back down again firmly. 

Careful, Sherlock," he murmured softly. "I don't want you to harm yourself any more than you already have."

Sherlock made a pained sound and whimpered. Actually whimpered. Like a small child, or a kicked puppy. The aches and pains he could feel were becoming unbearable and he was extremely uncomfortable in the hospital bed. He felt...dreadful.

The pain was quickly manifesting itself in physical signs. He started to shake and twitch, his muscles moving of their own accord. He watched as Mycroft turned ten shades paler in response to what he was seeing.

_My condition must be unstable if it's affecting Mycroft_ , Sherlock thought, a tiny frown forming on his brow.

Some nurses came in then and helped to steady Sherlock in the bed. Due to the narcotics abuse in the younger Holmes' past, they weren't able to administer stronger pain killers to ease him back to health. All they could do was watch as his body fought against him.

"Mr Holmes?" The doctor had arrived and motioned to speak with Mycroft. "A moment, if you would?"

Sherlock reached out and grabbed Mycroft, crushing his brother's hand so tight he heard bone crunching. When Mycroft tried to pull away urgently Sherlock dragged him closer yet, refusing to let go. 

"Um... Doctor," Mycroft grunted as Sherlock pulled him even closer. "I believe my brother is trying to tell me that we should talk here and not leave him alone."

Sherlock's mind felt like led. He wanted to convey so much but it felt like his speech receptors had received damage. Whereas he wanted to talk, his brain kindly reminded him that he'd probably suffered multiple strokes and seizures, and was unable to.

His vice-like grip tightened so much this time that Mycroft had very likely broken a few small bones. The yell he elicited from the man made Sherlock flinch in fright.

_It's not my fault_. He tried to convey with his eyes. _I have no control of my mind right now._

_"Sherlock," Mycroft grit out painfully from between his clenched teeth. "If you would kindly let go, my bones would greatly appreciate it."_

A huffy sort of breath escaped Sherlock as his hand unclenched, releasing Mycroft from the bone-crunching grasp.

He inspected the damage he'd left behind. An impressive bruise that was already beginning to turn an ugly looking colour. Mycroft himself looked absolutely furious, bristling underneath his expensive suit. 

"Right. Thank you," Mycroft groaned, cradling his hand to his chest. "Doctor, what are we to do next in the phase of Sherlock's recovery?"

"We need to determine the damage he received. He's had multiple seizures and cardiac problems since he has been under our care. It's impossible to tell whether he's sustained brain damage."

"Then do everything in your power to make sure my brother is not only able to communicate properly but also survives this... ordeal." He grimaced down at his little brother, so frail and small in the hospital bed. He reached out with the hand Sherlock hadn't crushed in his grip and smoothed his hair back, sweaty and dirty and stuck to his forehead.

"And maybe give him a shave," he murmured. "You'll want to be looking your best when your dear Watson comes to visit. Won't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked away from Mycroft, hoping to hide how ashamed he felt, but the creep of red on his cheeks and neck was more than a give away.

_He's not MY Watson_ , Sherlock thought bitterly.

Mycroft's lip smirked for barely a second before his mask was back on.

"Now, I do believe I need an x-ray or two before I leave. Sherlock, I'll be back to check on you later. I have a meeting with the Prime Minister that can't be rescheduled."

Sherlock huffed in response, bottom lip sticking out in a childish pout. His expression said ** _HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME_**.

He curled in on himself, raising his knees to his chest, preparing to sulk and protest his brother taking leave.

"Mister Holmes," the doctor said, coming over to lay him out properly again. "Don't. You can't lie all curled up like that. You could rip your stitches."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. Stitches?

He looked over to his brother for some kind of explanation, eyes wide with panic.

"There were... complications... from your overdose," Mycroft explained, seeing and sensing his brother's panic. "You had to have a mild operation, lost a lot of blood, so you've been in a medically induced coma for over a month to give your body time to recover from the strain you put it under."

Sherlock looked away guiltily from Mycroft's disappointed gaze, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He couldn't bear that look of disdain. He'd messed up this time, hadn't he? Mummy and daddy would be appalled at him. He probably interrupted their line dancing. It wouldn't be the first time that that had happened. 

"I'll be back to check on you," Mycroft said, gently squeezing Sherlock's shoulder with his good hand. "But right now I'd like to get patched up before my fingers heal crooked."

That made Sherlock’s lips twitch in amusement. His brother’s hand would be useless for months to come. The man would be forced to do more leg work as a result of not being able to file paperwork himself. This secretly quite pleased Sherlock, and must have shown on his face, because Mycroft started scowling at him quite sternly.

"I'd wipe that smug smirk off your face if I were you," he growled.

Sherlock gave Mycroft a pointed look that said “why should I?” It was vaguely reminiscent of when Sherlock had been ill as as a child in hospital, and had taken great pleasure in running his brother ragged with his antics. They were both older now, Mycroft more easily irritated, but Sherlock’s maturity levels remained just as childish as they had ever been.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and stepped away from his brother's bedside.

"I'll let John know you're awake," he said before leaving. "I'm sure he'd want to know you're actually alive this time."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, mimicking his brother’s look of disdain. Though secretly he was quite pleased that John was going to be summoned.

"I'll see you later, Sherlock," Mycroft said before departing, the doctor close behind him.

A nurse arrived to check the machines Sherlock was hooked up to, but otherwise he was alone once more.

Sherlock leaned across the bed where he could see a morphine drip attached to him, probably used to counteract the pain from his surgery. It was currently a low dosage, and it wasn't very effective, so he pressed the dial and increased his dosage. His head flopped back down on the pillow, a low groan emitting from the depth of his throat, as he fell prey to the glorious drug.

* * *

 

John was still at work when he received the text.

He's awake, and stronger than he realises. -MH

He sucked in a deep breath to calm his rapidly beating heart. Sherlock was awake and out of his coma. He quickly typed back a reply.

When can I see him? -JW

The reply was nearly instantaneous.

As soon as you wish. -MH

John nodded and pocketed his mobile, resolved to visit Sherlock as soon as his shift was over.

* * *

 

Sherlock was able to fool the nurses and doctors, but John Watson was a different story. The moment he walked through the door, his smile was replaced by a scowl, as he clocked on to the fact Sherlock's morphine was way too high.

He immediately walked over and lowered the dosage, scowling at the man in the bed.

"Are you still trying to kill yourself, Sherlock?" He growled. "That dosage was way too high and you know it."

Sherlock smirked at John like an idiot. He was far too high to care that John was angry at him, pupils blown wide with the morphine running through his veins.

"You're a damn idiot. You know that, right?" John shook his head and sat down in the chair next to his bed. "Wake me when you've sobered up," he grumbled, leaning back to take a nap.

Sherlock huffed as though to say "is this how you treat friends in hospital?" But John was already snoring heavily, ignorant to all of Sherlock's protest against this.

* * *

 

John slept for a couple of hours before he was shaken awake by a nurse.

"Wha? Wha izzit?" he slurred as he was rudely awoken.

"Mr Holmes was demanding that you be woken up," the nurse said. "Sorry for that. But he really was quite insistent."

"He's always been like that," John grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

There was a loud commotion as one of the doctors on duty fought to keep Sherlock in bed. The man was quite frankly insane, as he'd detached himself from the hospital apparatus, and was trying (with little success) to make the small journey over to John. No matter how many nurses or doctors tried to stop him he was determined to be with John. The doctors didn't want to sedate him as it would mean administering more drugs into his system, and it looked like Sherlock had already been overdosing on morphine.

So the nurses had tried to wake John before Sherlock could hurt himself or inflict injuries on hospital staff. It was just as John was shaking himself fully alert that Sherlock managed to break free from the arms gripping him.

He tumbled to the ground, as his legs were too weak to carry him. But that didn't stop him from crawling all the way over to John, nor did it stop him from literally scrambling onto John's lap like a cat, causing John to cry out in surprise, as the barely awake man hadn't expected a lap full of detective.

Then, just like a cat, he curled up on John's lap, nuzzling him for attention. He was still high as a kite, the morphine not quite faded, and the body contact he now had with John felt amazing.

 

"Christ, Sherlock," John growled. "What the bloody fuck is going on?"

"He's unable to speak, doctor Watson. He may need speech therapy, as well as physical therapy for his legs." The same nurse that woke up John explained. " I believe he was craving your companionship because he removed the apparatus attached to him."

Sherlock wound his arms around John tight, hugging the man with a death grip. He butted his head against John's chin like a cat would, grumbling when John still gave him no wanted attention.

"Had a bit of brain damage then?" John asked, still refusing to pet Sherlock like he was an animal. He hadn't even touched him apart from where Sherlock was pressing himself against his body.

"We're uncertain of how far the damage goes. It's a wonder he's not in a worse state than he is. By all accounts Sherlock Holmes should have died from the amount of drugs he took, but something kept him fighting."

Sherlock was getting physically upset that John was ignoring him now and he began to sniffle, lips trembling like an upset child. He wanted John to at least hug him like he had at the wedding. 

"He's always thought he was able to control his bodily functions and reactions," John said, still ignoring Sherlock's pleas for attention. "I once found him squirming in his chair as he was using his microscope because he hadn't had a piss in 12 hours. He thinks he's above it all, above everyone, but he's the same as the rest of us."

Sherlock was growing quite huffy now. He placed his hands on John's face and forced him to look him in the eyes. The gesture said "ignore those idiotic nurses and focus on me."

John scowled at Sherlock, staring into his blown pupils.

"What, Sherlock? What do you want from me? You nearly killed yourself yet again, and right in front of me. What do you want?"

Sherlock was unable to speak but he was still able to communicate with the use of sign language. He just hoped John had been practising. Sherlock had taught him the very basics for a case a few years back.

*you.* he signed. *I need you.*

John blinked and cocked his head to the side. It had been a while since they had signed, but he could still understand what Sherlock was saying. He looked past him at Mycroft's private hospital staff.

"Can we have a moment?" he asked. "I'll get him back into his bed soon, but can we have a moment? Please?"

"So long as he isn't out of his bed for long, I don't see a problem. He needs to rest, doctor Watson" The main nurse on duty agreed and ushered the other medical staff out of the room.

This left Sherlock and John alone together at last. The younger man started to but his head against John's chin once more, eagerly searching for his attention. When this didn't work he began to sign again.

*pay attention to me.* 

"Let me get you back into bed and hooked up properly first," John said. "Then I'll lay on the bed with you if you want."

Sherlock locked eyes with John. His eyebrows arched upwards, and his lips twitched playfully.

*I'd like that. Take me to bed.*

The expression now showing on his face was sultry, borderline flirtatious. Thankfully John didn't notice, or if he did, he simply chose to ignore it. 

John rolled his eyes, not missing Sherlock's flirtatious expression. He chalked it up to the drugs and ignored it.

He made sure Sherlock was secure in his arms before standing up. He grunted and almost fell over. The detective was heavier than he looked. He struggled to carry him the short distance over to the bed, but he managed it. He got Sherlock situated and then got him hooked up to the machines monitoring his vitals as well as the morphine drip. He turned it down though after seeing how high it still was.

"Comfy?" He asked Sherlock.

*I will be once you're in bed with me.*

Sherlock patted the space beside him.

"Move over a bit," he grumbled. He toed off his shoes and left them on the floor before climbing up on the hospital bed beside his friend.

Sherlock shifted so that his head was resting on John's chest. As he heard John's steady heartbeat he visibly relaxed, his eyes fluttering shut.

 

"Better?" John whispered, one of his hands reaching up to card through Sherlock's longer curls. He'd need to have it washed and cut soon.

Sherlock gasped softly, back arching in response to John carding a hand through his hair. His hair follicles had always been one of the most sensitive parts of him. If John just tugged at his curls a little harder he was certain he'd fall apart.

Had he been sober Sherlock would have done all he could to hide this peculiarity about him. But seeing as he was currently high as a kite he was too lost in the pleasure to care. He let out a loud moan, face creeping with colour. 

John's own face flushed scarlet at Sherlock's reaction. He'd never imagined Sherlock to be a sexual person. He hadn't even been sure Sherlock experienced arousal. He swallowed around his own lump of arousal and moved his hand out from Sherlock's hair.

"S-sorry," he grunted, averting his eyes. "I didn't-- sorry."

Sherlock waved one of his hands dismissively, as though to say to John that it was fine. His brain easily shrugged off the matter as nothing, but his body was acting of its own accord. He was harder than he'd ever been in his damn life, cock tenting through his hospital gown, pressing right up against John's hip. He tried to berate himself for acting like such a fool around his best friend, but he was too spaced out to really do anything about his current situation. John was the expert in these sort of things so Sherlock would allow him to navigate the situation. 

John coughed and scratched his head.

"Um... are you... you gonna do anything about... that?" he asked, gesturing to Sherlock's rock solid dick.

Sherlock opened his eyes briefly and gave him a look that stated "are you an idiot?". He was in no state to do anything at the moment, let alone take care of his bodily functions. He did, however, have the decency to shift away from John so his erection wasn't pressed so closely against him. He then closed his eyes and settled back down, drifting off into a deep sleep. 

John cleared his throat and rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, offering him the attention he so deeply craved. He kept watch over the various monitors tracking Sherlock's vitals, looking for anything dangerous.

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

"So, I see the other me in the other place is still a dickhead," Watson said, a pipe between his teeth.

"Why would you say that? He's the one putting up with my antics."

"Yes, but he didn't react to your predicament the way you wanted him to." Watson tskd and set his pipe down, his mustache twitching as he smiled. "You really are quite the little attention whore, aren't you, Holmes? Crawling into my lap like a cat in heat."

"I merely wanted him to show me some affection." Holmes huffed. "And he did eventually, a little, and in turn my body acted inappropriately."

"I'll say it did." Watson smirked at the significant bulge in his companion's trousers. "Even in here it's still affecting you. Do you want to take care of that?"

"I'm concerned that if I do so, I may accidentally take care of it in real life too. I wouldn't put it past me. I'd probably hump the poor man until I came all over us both. He probably hasn't the heart to move away from me whilst I'm so vulnerable and in need of my attention. So he'll allow me to...but it will cause so much tension between us. I can't put a strain on out relationship like that, I can't."

"Nonsense, Holmes," Watson tskd. "You and I both know that when you ejaculate in your sleep you do so without touching yourself. You'll cum all over your stomach and sheets, not over the other me. But if you'd rather not take the risk, I won't push you."

"I..." Holmes stared down at the tight tent in his trousers. "I would take the risk, buy even if I avoid cumming over John, won't he be disgusted with me? He'll see how undone I've become in my sleep, will probably hear me moaning out loud, might even come in contact with my cum accidentally if he's checking me over."

"He's a doctor, Holmes. He's seen worse, probably experienced this firsthand himself at some point in his life. He won't judge you for ejaculating in your sleep."

"You're probably right."Holmes murmured, the timber of his voice deepening. "You're smarter than you look, Watson."

"Pretty damn smart then?" He replied with a cheeky grin.

"Pretty damn smart." Holmes confirmed. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like you on your knees in front of me."

"Yes, sir." Watson slid onto the floor and positioned himself between Holmes' spread legs.

"Good man, Watson." Holmes reached down and unzipped his trousers, revealing that in his dream he was wearing no underwear.

"Foregoing pants again, dear?" John purred, his hands reaching up to stroke Holmes's knees, even the feeling of the soft cotton of his trousers erotic against his palms.

"I always do these days." Holmes admitted. "I like the thought of you...The other you...noticing that I've forgone underwear."

"And in your fantasies, how do I react?" Watson asked, his hands sliding further up Holmes's thighs.

You become flustered." Holmes placed his hands over John's on his knees. "And you call me out on it. And I look you directly in the eyes and I don't deny it. I tell you that my cock is far too large to be contained in underwear."

Watson hummed and licked his lips, staring right up into Holmes's eyes. He squeezed his thighs, feeling the muscle below as well as in the hands above his shift with the movement.

"And then what?" He asked, a bit breathless.

"You realise I'm flirting with you, but I act nonchalant. And this frustrates you." Holmes' lips twitched with fondness. "But of course you are unable to voice these frustrations because it would mean admitting you're attracted to me. I can see your internal battle so I take your hand and lead you to my bedroom."

Watson moaned and licked his lips, his grip tightening on Holmes's thighs.

"Do I say anything to you as you take me to bed?" He asked, leaning up a bit to be closer to Holmes's delicious full lips.

"You remain quite speechless. I don't think you realise what my intentions are. That is until I've pushed you down onto the bed and we're kissing. Even then you don't know what to say, but you pull me tight against you, and you kiss me back. We have a lot to talk about, obviously, but for now we lose ourselves in each other."

"God, Holmes," Watson groaned. "Yes. Take me to bed. Just like that. Snog me senseless."

Holmes pulled Watson up onto his lap, and the dreamworld changed around them. Holmes now spread out across his own bed, Watson pressed against him. There were no words exchanged between them, and they quickly began to kiss each other.

Watson hummed and ran his fingers through Holmes's hair. One of his legs slid up and hooked around his waist, pulling their groins closer together.

Holmes almost lost all sense of himself as Watson's hands carded through his hair. He didn't know why but that sensation sent an ungodly amount of blood rushing south.

"Harder," he demanded, as he parted briefly from their kiss. "You need to pull at my hair follicles harder. My body seems to like that."

"Sure, love."  Watson raked his hands through to the roots of his hair and tugged, being careful not to actually rip any out.

Holmes lurched forwards as Watson pulled insistently on his hair. He pressed his face against Watson's neck, barely suppressing a groan, and sunk his teeth deep in the pale flesh to claim him.

"Fuck, Holmes!" Watson cried, tugging harder on his hair. "God, yes. That's it, darling. That's it. Take your pleasure, ride it out. Use me however you want."

Holmes continued to bite into the pale stretch of neck Watson had on display, littering it with red marks. He sucked his lips over the curve of the older man's Adams apple, the suction causing a splendid slurping noise that was highly erotic.

"I dream of doing this to the other you. Permanently marking him as my own. God, Watson. He wouldn't be able to stay composed for long. All this biting and licking and sucking lark would end him."

"It's nearly ending me too," Watson moaned, his groin rutting against his companion's. "God, Holmes. I need you. More of you. Take off your clothes."

"Make me." Holmes teased as he licked a long strip of saliva up Watson's neck.

Watson whimpered, his knees falling further apart like a wanton whore.

"Holmes," he whined, panting hard. "Oh, God. I'm nearly there already. Please. I don't want to cum in my trousers like a teenager. Fuck me. Suck me off. Anything. Please. I need you. All of you. Whatever you want to give me I'll take it."

 

 

 

"I'll fuck you." No sooner had those words left him, the dream changed once more.

Holmes was now buried to the hilt inside Watson, stretching him as wide as he could go. He grabbed massive fistfuls of the sheets below them as he began to move, the entire bed shaking with the force of his thrusts.

* * *

  
Meanwhile, in reality, a sleeping Sherlock was canting his hips into the air, moaning softly, colour rushing to his face and neck.

His hands gravitated to John's warm body, and gripping the man's arm, he pulled himself closer. As predicted by Holmes in his mind, he began to hump John, the friction of the man's clothes pleasant on his cock.

When he felt John try to move away he took a firmer hold of him, his dry humping increasing, a frown of frustration crossing his features.

John had fallen asleep again as well, so when he felt Sherlock shift around his body instinctively moved away to give him room. But when Sherlock moved closer yet again there wasn't room to move without falling off the bed, so he stayed where he was. Sherlock was warm and all his hard edges were so soft when he was asleep. He was rarely ever relaxed enough to soften the way he did in sleep. So John curled up and his hand found its way to his hair again and settled there.

* * *

 

 

Holmes and Watson were kissing each other furiously, both fighting for dominance. When he felt Watson card a hand through his hair he nipped at his mouth playfully.

"You're a bad man, Watson." Holmes growled, canting his hips upwards, cock sliding in and out with a wet slap. "You were made for this, weren't you? So warm and tight, stretching around my cock."

"H-Holmes," Watson moaned, his back arching off the bed as his prostate was stimulated from an especially hard thrust. "Oh, God, fuck man! You're driving me bloody mad. Harder. Please. I can take it. You know I can."

 

"I'm quite aware." Holmes admitted, his voice low and gravelly, deeper during the act of sex than it usually was. "Do you know I've listened to you- well the other you - having sex on many occasions. I don't think he knows quite how vocal he is."

He felt Watson shift and whine needily beneath him and realised his hips had briefly stalled. He began to pick up pace again, slamming his cock into Watson as deep and hard as he could go. As this was a dream he was able to hit Watson's prostate with precision each time, causing both of them to cry out in pleasure.

"Oh good lord, Watson. I'm going to-" Sherlock's head tilted backwards and he let out a waning moan, his balls drawing up close to his body, a tight warm sensation coiling in his groin. "Ah- ah-yes! I'm Cumming.Watson!"

* * *

 

Back in reality Sherlock had practically entangled himself with John. His hands gripped John so tight his fingertips would no doubt leave bruises. One of his hands was looped around John's waist, the other digging into John's hip.

His release built just as it had in his dream, and as he reached the brink of his orgasm, he woke with a strangled gasp, the sensation that washed over him overwhelmingly powerful. He was cumming harder than than he could remember doing so in months.

Thick white strips of semen soon coated his stomach, the bed sheets,and embarrassingly John was smattered with large dollops of the bodily fluid. There was nothing that Sherlock could do to get out of this situation. He could only watch in horror as John woke up to Sherlock shaking with the aftermath of his powerful orgasm. 

John groaned and untangled his hand from Sherlock's hair.

"S'lock?" He mumbled, turning his head to look at him. "You OK? What's goin' on?"

Sherlock tried to wriggle away from John but there wasn't much room on the bed to achieve that, and their limbs were too intertwined. He knew that John, even though he was less observant than Sherlock, would take one look and know what had happened. His stomach clenched with nausea, his pulse beat erratically, and his cheeks flamed red in shame. He'd gotten off using John's warm, solid body as friction against his cock. That would have been bad enough on its own, but to top all that off he'd cum all over them both. All the evidence made it look like Sherlock had just had sex with John. Which, he sort of had, in his mind at least. The room smelt strongly of sex and the two of their scents mingled together to produce an arousing smell.

Sherlock knew John could smell it as soon as he felt the man freeze up, muscles going rigid. He looked utterly unreadable. It was hard to deduce what he was feeling, what thoughts were reeling through his mind. Was it disgust? Anger? Horror? Mortification?


	16. Chapter 16

_/What the fuck just happened? Oh my god. What's happened? Did Sherlock...? He did. Fuck. He actually did. Oh, fuck. It's everywhere because he's not wearing any bloody pants under that fucking hospital gown. Fuck. It's on my jeans. Aw, shit. And it's on my jumper. This one's my favourite. God I hope I can get this shit out. This kind of jumper is hard to find these days. God dammit, Sherlock. If you somehow did this on purpose.../_

He sucked in a breath after an incredibly tense moment of awkward silence. He blinked... paused... and blinked again. He slowly turned his head to look down at the man beside him.

"I think we'd better get you cleaned up," he said, lifting up the blanket to slide out of the bed. "But I'll have to give you a sponge bath in the bed since you've got those stitches from falling out of bed when they were beginning to wean you off the sedatives. Mycroft told me your body was waking up before your conscious mind could catch up and you tried to take a walk and... I'm rambling, aren't I? Sorry. Um... I'm gonna get the stuff to clean you and I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

Despite the humiliation that Sherlock felt, he was able to give John a pointed look. It was as though he was saying “I can hardly get up and go walkies around the hospital, John." He watched as the man cleared his throat awkwardly and slid out of the bed. He still couldn’t read what John was feeling. Ever since Sherlock came back from the fall he’d gotten better at hiding his emotions, and it felt as though whenever John did feel something he chose to not speak about it. Or at least he didn’t speak to Sherlock about his feelings. No. He had Mary for that now, didn’t he? He didn’t need Sherlock…no longer felt like sharing his life with Sherlock.

The sound that Sherlock made in the back of his throat sounded pained, laced with anguish. He couldn’t quite describe what he was feeling himself. His mind ran blank as he watched John start to clean him up in complete silence. He could feel a tightness in his chest and his heart was beating far too fast. All of his symptoms were emphasized by the machines that he was attached to, beeping erratically. He was on the verge of having one of his “meltdowns”. Since Serbia it wasn’t uncommon for him to experience these symptoms. He found that his mind began to drift away from the hospital, away from John’s silence, and to other things that could be considered a bit not good.

Mycroft had forced him to go to therapy afterwards, believing that Sherlock required assistance regaining his “mental capacities”, and deeming him unfit after the first few panic attacks/meltdowns. He’d only attended one session and that had turned into a disaster. Ella had diagnosed him with PTSD and had recommended a strong dose of anti-anxiety, anti-depressant, and ant-psychotic medication. She’d advised that on top of his medication Sherlock should also attend weekly sessions to talk about his feelings. This had happened just after he’d announced that he was in fact still alive to John. He’d outright refused the medication and when Ella pestered him about the weekly sessions he’d made a very rude gesture and left.

The truth was Sherlock’s brain had not been functioning correctly since he'd come back from Serbia. Everything he saw…everything he did…everything that happened to him…it had changed him completely. Made his personality quieter, more subdued, more willing to please other people. He became jumpier, the smallest of sounds setting him off. Ella had been right to prescribe him the medication, but the thought of John seeing him hopped up on drugs made him feel sick, and at the time he’d been worried that the medication was the one thing standing between him and John ever becoming a united team again.

John had eventually allowed him back into his life bit by bit, but Sherlock forgot about the medication and the therapy, pushing it to the back of his mind. Because of this things got steadily worse for him. Much worse. He was plagued with nightmares that had him waking up in the middle of the night shaking and screaming, begging for relief from whips and chains and fists that weren’t really there. He experienced moments of dissociation where in his mind he was back in that tiny, cramped cell and he could still feel blood filling his mouth, trickling down his chin slickly.

That wasn’t the worse of it either. He began to hear a voice that would taunt him, make him feel useless, and worthless. The voice had started back in that cell but it had been nicer then, whispering words of encouragement, telling him that he would be home soon, and that he was brilliant. That had been before John rejected him, before Mary, before he realised that John could never feel about Sherlock as deeply as Sherlock did for him. When he realised this the voice turned nasty, bitter, and started to destroy him bit by bit. The voice belonged to John and it was all wrong. Of course the man didn’t really hate him, would never belittle him, or make hm feel so unlovable. Sherlock knew that, he did, but that hadn’t stopped the voice in its tracks.

When the voice manifested itself as a dark version of John, Sherlock had very almost killed himself. Because this dark-John hallucination was the furthest thing away from the man he loved. His eyes were dull, glazed over, making him look dead. He never smiled and there was nothing kind about him, no big heart, no loving expression. Nothing. Instead of wearing John’s warm and welcoming jumpers, he instead wore dark plaid clothes that made him look like he’d given up all hope. He told Sherlock to do terrible, horrible things. _Hurt yourself. Shoot up. Go on. Overdose. You know he doesn’t really care about you, right?_

That’s how he’d ended up overdosing on the plane…

* * *

 

The dark version of John had been there on the tarmac standing behind him, glaring with that dead look in his eyes. His hands wrapped around Sherlock’s throat, choking him, forcing him to push away the words he’d really wanted to say.

"John, there's something...I should say. I-I've meant to say and then never have.” Sherlock had felt all manner of unspeakable emotions rise up in him. At that point he’d thought that the was being sent off to his death in six months time. What did it matter if he told John that he loved him? "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

“No.” The Dark John had said, choking him. “Don’t be stupid Sherlock. You’re just showing off if you tell him now. You don’t get to do that, Sherlock. You hear me?”

“What?” The real John had asked him, looking up expectantly.

“He could never love you, you know. He would have been better of if you really had died in the fall. Don’t tell him."

He was so accustomed to the Dark John giving orders, and to actually listening to them, that he didn’t question it. Instead a cold sensation washed over him and the words he was originally going to say died on his lips. He tried to make a joke out of the situation. “Sherlock is actually a girls name.”

The moment he’d gotten on the plane the Dark John told him to shoot up, even though he’d already had his fair share of drugs prior to getting on board. He listened. Of course he listened. Dark John was right. John would be much better of if he was dead. There was always a minimal chance that Mycroft might get him out of his 6 months death sentence. Overdosing would be quicker and more efficient and would save on funeral costs too. So that’s what he did…and look where it got him…

* * *

 

Sherlock could feel the pressure of the real John’s hand on his shoulder. His face was in front of him and he was speaking low and soft, eyes kind and worried. He flinched away from this contact and put as much space between him and John as possible. By this point he was shaking, twitching, eyes darting around the room. He was so close to losing it. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.

“He hates you.” The Dark John whispered close to his ear, grabbing Sherlock by the jaw and forcing him to look the real John in the eyes. “You violated him. Look at him. Look. Look how much he hates you!”

That was the final straw. He bent back his head and let out an angered scream that made the real John leap back in shock. 

 


	17. Chapter 17

John ran to fetch the nurses, Sherlock's fit quickly turning dangerous. He would have helped Sherlock himself, but he was too close to the case and he needed to distance himself and allow those who weren't emotionally involved to handle it.

_/Emotionally involved? Is that what this is?/_ John was pushed to the wall as the private medical staff rushed in. He walked out on autopilot, lost in his head as he went over everything that had happened in the short time since Sherlock had woken up.

* * *

 

Mycroft found John sitting on a bench in the hospital cafeteria a few hours after Sherlock had suffered his most recent fit. The man was deep in thought and sipping at a disappointing coffee. He barely registered Mycroft's presence.

"Dr Watson." Mycroft greeted, clearing his throat. "I wish to discuss my brother." 

"What is there to say?" He said to his now cold coffee.

Mycroft dropped a hefty brown folder onto the table in front of John. It landed with a heavy thud, weighed down with various papers, pictures, and reports.

"There's plenty to say actually. But perhaps the good doctor would like some time to read this before we speak?" 

"What's in it?" John asked, eyeing the massive folder with caution.

"Everything that Sherlock went through in his time away." Mycroft said, pressing his thin lips together firmly. "It's time you were enlightened."

"Oh." John stared down at the folder, not daring to even touch it yet. "Are you sure? Sherlock... I got the distinct impression that he didn't want me to know."

"He doesn't want you to know, doctor Watson. He mustn't know you've read it, so I expect your full discretion. Is that understood?"

"But... if I've read about all that's happened to him, how am I just supposed to go on pretending that I haven't a clue? I'm not that good of an actor, Mycroft. He'll see right through me. Like he did with Irene."

"You do care about him, don't you?" Mycroft asked, spitting the word care like it pained him. "Not much good, this caring lark, if you can't protect your 'best friend'." 

"Don't you pretend like you don't care about him either," John spat. "You told me to watch over him on the plane. Because we both know I do a better job of it than you ever could."

"If that's so true then how come you didn't pick up on my baby brother's PTSD, or the fact that he's been having a mental breakdown for months now?" Mycroft bit back, just as equally snide. "Frankly you aren't prepared enough to care about or for Sherlock."

John slammed his fists on the table and stood up ramrod straight, ever the soldier.

"Forgive me for having a life outside of Sherlock Holmes! Forgive me for being so caught up in my own bloody crises that I couldn't see his! I'm not perfect! No one is! Not Sherlock, not Lestrade, and certainly not you! Now get out, Mycroft, before I punch you and we're both thrown out!"

"This isn't about me." Mycroft scowled, voice cold like a reptile hissing. "You know what this is? Guilt. And you're right to feel that way. "

He pointed at the thick folder that still lay untouched on the table.

"Do you know what that contains, Doctor Watson? It is every injury, every tale of torture and capture, every day of loneliness and pain Sherlock endured. It has his therapists case notes, the medications he should be on but refused because he didn't want to disappoint you, and each time he has relapsed. One occasion of which is when he left your wedding early. Did you notice he left early? Did you care?"

Mycroft's lips curled into a cruel, twisted smile.

"I will never bring myself to understand why my baby brother fell in love with you. A man who will never return his affections, who would never make sacrifices for him like he did for you. Read the file, DR Watson."

Mycroft left before John could get close enough to hit him. He did, however, manage to capture a glimpse of John so pale he looked ill with the information he'd been given. Though Mycroft was certain that John would not have taken on board the last comment, or would just brush it off as Mycroft being snide.

John sat back down, his body numb as his mind processed what Mycroft had just told him. Torture? Capture? PTSD? He knew Sherlock had been different upon his return, but he thought it was because of Mary, because of some form of abandonment issues or rejection.

Rejection...

Hadn't Mycroft said...? No. He did say. Sherlock was in love with him? No. That couldn't be right. Sherlock didn't feel that way about anyone. He loved himself more than other people. And he said himself the first day they met that he was married to his work. Could their relationship really have evolved that much in five years? Well... three given Sherlock was gone for two of them.

He looked down at the folder again, his fingers twitching to pick it up. Was he ready to find out what Sherlock had gone through? Did he really want to violate his trust like this? He clenched his hand into a fist and stood up again, pulling his coat on before snatching up the file and storming out.

**/Mycroft. Tell Sherlock I've gone back to Baker Street when he's woken up. I'm going to pick up a few things. -JW/**

**/He's awake now. What did you do to him? He looks positively deveststed. *insert cctv image* - MH/**

**/I would also suggest cleaning up your clothes before you return to your wife. -MH/**

John didn't answer him, and he didn't dare look at the attached image. He knew what Sherlock had looked like when he'd left. He didn't need to see what he looked like when he realised he was gone.

He walked back to Baker Street, not wanting to put up with public transportation and how slow and crowded they were. He needed the time to think and gather his thoughts about the whole situation and whether or not he wanted to break Sherlock's trust anymore by reading that file.

He got his keys out when he reached Baker Street and opened up the large black door to 221. He made sure to shut and lock it behind him and ambled upstairs before Mrs Hudson could call on him. He got into the sitting room and collapsed onto the sofa, his head pounding with everything going through it.

"What are you doing here?" A small voice asked, causing John to jump in his chair and swivel around. Archie stared at John curiously through his thick curls. "Mr Holmes didn't say anything about visitors. He said I could have the whole place to myself so I could play detectives."

"Archie?" John sat up and stared at the boy. "What...? Sherlock said you could stay here? Alone?"

"Before he left he told me that I could come here whenever the grown ups are being stupid." Archie slid into Sherlock's chair, looking quite comical as he was dressed in one of Sherlock's long coats and his infamous deerstalker. "The last time I saw him he was...sad...but I told him I'd be a good detective and look after the flat for him. He cheered up a little when I told him that. He said I was brilliant, and that one day I'd make a great detective!"

John smiled fondly at the boy, looking very much like he imagined young Sherlock to be.

"Well, thank you for looking after the place, Archie," he said after a moment. "Is it alright if I stay here for a bit? I was going to bring Mr. Holmes some things, but I just needed to sit down for a bit first."

"He's...back?" Archie asked, eyes widening. "He said that he didn't think he'd return from where he was going."

"Yes, he's back," John confirmed. "But he won't be back to Baker Street for a while yet. That's why I wanted to get him some of his things to make him feel a little better."

"Can I see him?" Archie asked softly. "It's just...I didn't think I'd ever see him again."

"I don't think that would be a good idea right now. Mr Holmes isn't well at the moment. As soon as he's better I'll give your mum a call and you can come see him, OK? But right now he's too sick for too many visitors."

"Oh." Archie's expression fell, disappointed. " But...They say laughter is the best medicine - hmm? And I know I make him laugh! I wouldn't stay long...Please?"

"Not right now, Archie. I'm sorry. But as soon as he's well enough for more visitors I promise I'll call you first. But if you'd like to give him something I'd be happy to pass it along."

"OK, OK. It's just...I miss him so much. It's kinda like...having a dad." Archie reached inside the long coat and pulled our a picture of him and Sherlock together. Sherlock had his arm around Archie and seemed to be smiling genuinely at the camera. "Can you give him this?" 

John stood up and took the photo, smiling down at it.

"Of course," he murmured. "Was this taken at the wedding?"

"No. A couple of weeks after. You were on your sex holiday. He was sad...so I asked him if we could go on a case together, and he said yes!"

"He took you on a case?" His brow furrowed in worry. "Which one?"

"It's a secret one. He said I could be his new partner since you weren't going to be taking part in cases with him anymore." 

John's face fell, hurt that Sherlock had thought they wouldn't be working together anymore.

"What?" he asked, his voice sounding small even to himself. "But... that's not... I'm coming back. I haven't made any plans to quit."

"He said that you were becoming a dad and that things were going to change. He called it an end of an era. Said that dads are far too busy with their babies to solve crimes. " Archie shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I don't have a dad. I wish Sherlock was my dad. Do you think he'd agree to be my dad if I asked him?"

John couldn't help but smile at the pure innocence of the boy. He really was an adorable child and he was glad he was able to be the ring bearer at his wedding.

"I think you might want to ask your Mum too, but I don't see why you wouldn't be able to ask Sherlock to be your dad. I think it might do him a world of good to have someone to look after for once. Someone else to focus on instead of himself all the time."

"Do you really think so?" Archie leaped to his feet, brimming with excitement. "He'd make the best dad. Everyone is so mean about him but he's such a nice man. He'd be the nicest dad in the world."

"Yes," John murmured softly, lost in his own thoughts. "He's a wonderful man. With a large heart. He's not as selfish as others think. Someone could make him very happy if he'd only let them."

"I think you made him happy at one point." Archie pointed out. "But before he left whenever he talked about you he was sad." 

"Yes, I... I wasn't as great as friend as I could have been. But he needs me now, so I'm here to help. Is there anything you think I should bring him? Other than the photo?"

"You should take Billy to see him."Archie trotted over to the mantelpiece and picked up the skull. "He likes to talk to him when he gets lonely."

John swallowed down his words, not having the heart to tell the kid that Sherlock couldn't talk at the moment. But he took Billy nonetheless as he hoped his presence might help keep Sherlock a little calmer.

"Right. Thanks," he murmured, taking the human skull and staring into its empty eye sockets. "Let's find a box to put him in. Then Sherlock can open it like a present and see him inside."

Archie nodded and headed to Sherlock's room. As he stepped inside he got on his hands and knees and scrambled about, looking for a box they could put Billy the skull inside. He found a box that was well hidden and he pulled it out, blowing the dust and cobwebs away.

He opened the box to see what was already inside and discovered some "adult" magazines. He knew this because he'd caught his mum giggling with her friends whilst looking at glossy male models. These men in Sherlock's magazines were all either wearing military uniform, or were mostly naked, and some appeared to be wearing latex suits with whips and chains. Archie's mum always cheered up when she read those sort of magazines, so he supposed that it might do the same for Sherlock too.

He picked the box up and returned to the living room area, placing the box down in front of John.

"I found some magazines for him to read in here, but it's the perfect size for Billy too." 

"Magazines? What kind?" He'd only known Sherlock to read scientific journals and sometimes the medical journal he'd subscribed to through the clinic. What ones had he hidden from him?

He knelt down to set Billy beside the box and opened it. The colour drained from his face when he saw the cover of the magazine on top: half naked men in army fatigues in pornographic poses greeted him, and he instantly felt embarrassed that he'd seen something Sherlock had clearly wanted to remain private.

He looked up at Archie who was looking at him quizzically, looking like a miniature Sherlock in the coat and deerstalker.

"Did you... Have you read these? Ever? At all?" He asked the boy, hoping the answer was no.

Archie scuffed his shoe against the floor and shifted his eyes so he didn’t meet John’s quizzical gaze. A light blush rose to his cheeks as he stammered over his words. “If I did am I…am I in trouble?"

"Well... no...," John murmured. "I just... these kinds of magazines are supposed to only be for adults."

“Why?” Archie asked, sounding just as petulant as Sherlock usually did. “Sherlock told me that is was all fine. He said that…if I had interests…I should explore them. He told me that it’s better to do that than to stay as a shut in invert for the rest of my life. He said that he’d made that mistake…and that it made him sad."

John couldn't help but smile a little at the boy's use of Sherlock's old-fashioned words. But it quickly fell as he realized what they meant.

"He's not wrong," he murmured after a while of silence. "It's good to see what sort of things you like in a safe way. Sherlock... he has a way of making everyone feel safe, even if that's the furthest thing from the truth."

“I asked Sherlock if he had a boyfriend once.” Archie mused. “He said that he has male companions, which isn’t the same thing. I told him that it’s all very confusing, but he said I’d work it out one day when I’m older."

"Oh." John flushed at the implication of Sherlock having men at his disposal that he could have sex with whenever he wanted to, or needed to. He'd thought Sherlock wasn't interested in anyone at all in any way. But to learn that Sherlock had sexual desires just like any other man made him seem less mysterious and much more... human.

"Anyway..." Archie said as he put Billy inside the box of magazines. "I think Sherlock would like those magazines. They seem to make him happy."

"Yes," John murmured. "Well... um... thank you, Archie. For helping me with this and also for watching over the flat while Sherlock's been gone. You've done a good job."

"You want me to go, don't you?" Archie asked, then pointed to the folder John had discarded on the floor. "Because you want to read what's in there in private." 

"What?" John looked at the discarded folder and frowned. "No. No, I'm not going to read that. I'll put it in the box and bring it to Sherlock, but I'm not going to read it. I don't need to." He picked it up and put it on top of the magazines, settling Billy on top and closing the box, feeling like he was hiding Sherlock's dirty secrets.

"You can't show it him. It will make him very sad." Archie bit his lip anxiously. "I deduce that the file contains sensitive information."

"I wasn't going to show it to him," John told him, a smile pulling at his lips. "He's been teaching you his methods."

"His methods are easy to learn. You'd have to be an idiot to not pick them up after a few hours of spending time with him."

"And his attitude as well." He laughed and smiled at the boy. "He's been a good role model for you, Archie, but try not to let his view of the world become yours. Make your own observations for a while before coming to your own conclusions, OK?"

"And what do you mean by that?" Archie huffed, crossing his arms and wrinkling his nose in a very Sherlockian way. "What's /wrong/ with his world view?"

"It's very... sad," John said for lack of a better word. "You said it yourself that he's seemed sadder for a while. And I'm probably partially to blame for that. But I'm going to try and help him be happy. He deserves to be happy."

"You should have married him instead then." Archie huffed and sat back down on Sherlock's chair. "Then you could have made him very happy." 

"Yes," John murmured without thinking. "I should have."

"Adults are so stupid. You should just tell him how you feel."

_/I can't,/_ John thought miserably. But he merely nodded and stood up, taking the box with him.

"Right. Well, I'd best be off. I'll tell Sherlock that you've been taking good care of the flat in his absence. And would you like me to ask him if he'd be your dad? Or do you want to ask him?"

"Could...could you ask him?" Archie flushed bright pink. "I'm too scared to ask myself."

"Sure," John said softly. "Sure. I'll ask him." He smiled and went over to Archie to give him a hug. "Thank you," he whispered.

Archie hugged John back tight. He could tell John needed a hug. He looked sad, just like Sherlock always used to look sad. "You give good hugs. You'll be a great dad."

John sniffled a bit and blinked away tears. "Thanks, kid," he whispered. "I sure hope so."

"You will be!" Archie piped up, hugging John tighter. "I just know it. I can tell these things." 

John laughed happily. "Well then it must be true!" He leaned back and smiled at the kid. "Thank you. I'd best be off now. Take good care of the place while we're gone, yeah? I'll try and have Sherlock back soon."

"Tell Sherlock I love him." Archie murmured softly. "I hope he feels much better soon."

"Will do, kid." John picked up the box with Sherlock's gifts in it and headed out the door.

**/I'm on my way back. I've picked some things up for Sherlock from the flat. -JW/**

**/I am more than aware. I have cctv inside the flat. -MH/**

**/You haven't read the file. You will regret it of you don't. -MH/**

**/You won't be able to protect him without full knowledge of what you're protecting him from. - MH./**

**/The cameras need to go. Now. I won't have you spying on Sherlock as he recovers. -JW/**

**/Also, I'm going to talk to Sherlock about the file before I read it. I'm not just going to violate his trust like this without getting his permission. -JW/**

**/Sherlock will not be returning to Baker Street. - MH/**

**/He will attend rehab as an in patient. -MH/**

**/And you will not show him that folder. You haven't seen him John. You have no idea how affected he was by his time away. I would advise against showing him. It could trigger him. - MH/**

**/I understand the rehab, but he won't stay there long. You and I both know this. -JW/**

**/And I don't plan on showing Sherlock anything in the file. Far from it. I'm not stupid, though you seem to think so. -JW/**

**/I don't plan on putting Sherlock in anymore harm, though I can't say the same for you. -JW/**

He set his phone in his coat and exited the cab he'd called, paying the driver before heading into the private facility where Sherlock was held. He walked in and signed the logbook before heading back to Sherlock's room.


	18. Chapter 18

He will remain in rehab until I deem fit. - MH.

I do not think you are stupid. In fact you are smarter than I first thought. However, you are also unaware of how damaged Sherlock is. Sometimes ignorance can mean you make idiotic decisions. - MH.

-  
Sherlock was awake when John walked into the room. He smiled shyly, averting his gaze away from the older man, embarrassed by his earlier actions. 

"Hey, Sherlock," John said, smiling reassuringly at him. "I brought you some stuff from the flat. Thought they might cheer you up."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow in surprise, eying the box John was carrying with mild caution.

"Don't look at it like that," John reprimanded softly. "It's all good things in here. Promise. Archie helped me pick out some things we thought might cheer you up." He opened the box and pulled Billy out, setting him on the table to Sherlock's right, away from the morphine drip.

Sherlock broke out into a big smile upon seeing Billy. He attempted to sign a thank you but the morphine was slowing his coordinationand he wasn't sure he managed it. Hopefully John would get the gist of what he was trying to say.

John smiled and nodded. "You're welcome." He took the photo of Sherlock and Archie out of his coat pocket next and showed it to him.

"Archie said to give you this too."

Sherlock's grin widened even more at the sight of the young boy he was so fond of. He reached out for the photograph and took it from John. 

"He wanted me to ask you something." John sat the box on the floor and sat down on the bed next to Sherlock. "He was wondering if you'd be his dad? You wouldn't have to marry his mum or anything. Just be a good role model for him and take him places, like the zoo or a science museum. He really looks up to you and you two were so good together at the... the wedding." He cleared his throat and looked away. "So, would you be the father figure the kid needs? He was wearing one of your coats and the deerstalker when I showed up."

Sherlock felt himself flush, even the tips of ears turning quite pink. Archie wanted him to be his dad? When had that happened?

"He, ah... he loves you, you know?" John murmured. "He wanted me to tell you. And that he hopes you feel better soon. The kid is smitten with you, Sherlock. It's actually cute just how much he looks up to you."

He managed a small smile and looked over at his friend, the shocked expression on his face tearing at his heart. After all this time, Sherlock still didn't believe he was worthy of love? He desperately wanted to reach out and grab his hand, squeeze it tight, and show him just how incredibly loved he was. But with Mycroft watching their every move (and his wife, of course) he couldn't risk it. He sighed and clenched his hand against his thigh instead.

"So... would you be his dad?" He asked again after a tense moment.

*I'd make a terrible dad.* Sherlock signed after a moment, cheeks still flaming pink. *Look at me, John. I can't look after myself. How am I supposed to look after a child?*

"You seemed to be doing a decent job before," John said, pointing to the photo. "He adores you. And you wouldn't be his actual dad. Just a father figure. He really looks up to you. Said you're helping him figure out his sexuality? Which reminds me." He slid off the bed and went to pick up the box again, but took the massive file out of it first and slid it under the bed. He stood back up and sat the box beside Sherlock. "Archie thought these might cheer you up too."

Sherlock's embarrassment turned into fully blown mortification as he saw what was inside the box, and the ramifications of what John had seen dawned on him. Red cheeked, breathing unsteady, heart rate accelerating, he turned away from John in shame. 

"I didn't read any, Sherlock," John said for lack of what to actually say. "And I'm not going to judge you for you sexuality or whatever kinks you have. I'm the last person who should be judging you. I mean, if you knew my kinks... well, knowing you, you probably do. Whatever. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is... it's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock shook his head and let out a low whine.

*but you were never meant to know.* he signed.

"Why not? Were you afraid I'd be embarrassed? Or that I'd shame you for you kinks?"

*no* he signed frantically. He felt tears prick at his eyes and he had to blink them away. *that's not what I was worried about.*

John's sign language was still a bit rusty, but he was able to piece together what Sherlock was saying. He frowned and placed a hand over one of Sherlock's, just a gentle caress of skin against skin.

"Then what, Sherlock? What had you so worried about me finding those?"

Sherlock stared sadly at the hand covering his. He simply shook his head to tell John that he didn't want to discus this.

John sighed and nodded, understanding Sherlock even in his silence. His hand reflexively squeezed Sherlock's before letting it go.

"Look, Sherlock," he whispered. "I'm sorry about what happened this afternoon. I... I shouldn't have walked away after you'd clearly had a fit of some sort. I just... I know I'm a doctor and I need to be prepared for those types of situations... but it's different with you." He looked over at the man beside him and caught his gaze. "It's always been different with you."

Sherlock frowned, puzzled. He withdrew his hand from underneath John's so he could sign.

*different how?*

"There's always been a... conflict of interest with you," he explained. "I'm too close to you to behave rationally when you get injured or something like your fits happens to you. I can't... distance myself from the situation...can't react properly when you're involved. I... God." He paused and swallowed thickly, feeling his pulse racing in his chest. "You're my best friend and I love you so damn much. More than I've loved anyone in my entire miserable life. And I can't just shove that aside whenever you get hurt. I can't just forget how I feel about you."

Sherlock felt his chest constrict painfully as he absorbed John's words. He...loved Sherlock? No, that couldn't be right. Perhaps he meant it in a "you're my best friend and I love you" kind of way. Rather than an "I love you and want to be in a romantic entanglement with you" kind of way.

The thought of John loving Sherlock on any level sent his heart into a frantic panic, the heart machine he was attached to beeping erratically.

And then there was the last straw that sent him into full on panic mode. Dark John sitting at the end of his bed, glaring at him with joyless eyes.

"He doesn't mean it." Dark John said. " he could never love a man like you. "

John noticed Sherlock beginning to panic and moved to cradle his face in his hands. He whispered to him, soft words of comfort, and stroked his thumbs over his cheekbones.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lay all that on you. I'm sorry. I just... I couldn't hold that in anymore. You deserve to know that people care about you. That you're loved. Everyone deserves to be loved. Even genius consulting detectives."

The tears that had been threatening to fall for a while now started to cascade down Sherlock's cheeks thick and fast. It was clearly a turn of events that John hasn't expected as John froze up in shock. Perhaps he'd imagined the great Sherlock Holmes as untouchable, an unfeeling machine, but seeing all of those wet droplets disproved that theory.

A moment later had John unfreezeing and throwing his arms around Sherlock's neck. If Sherlock wasn't mistaken he could feel warm lips on his neck, as John buried his head against him, almost as though John was resisting the urge to kiss him.

"Sherlock," John whispered, holding him close. "Don't cry. Please don't cry. I... shit. I've never seen you like this before. Sherlock, love, please don't cry." He sucked in a breath and tries not to cry himself. He buried his face against Sherlock's neck and shook with the effort of trying not to cry. But there was wetness on his cheeks, so he knew his efforts were in vain.

 

Sherlock tilted his neck, pushing the exposed skin up against John's trembling lips. John had called him love. He was so blissfully close to kissing him. Please, he thought desperately, please kiss me, show me it's going to be OK, choose me.

John's heart was hammering in his chest, his breath coming in short, sharp pants, his vision blurring as his instincts told him to comfort his best friend and the man he loved most in the world. His lips caressed Sherlock's neck, steadily moving up to his jaw, his cheek, his nose, until... until...

It was just a gentle touch of lips, a kiss to the corner of his mouth, but it was enough to send sparks throughout his whole body. He gasped slightly, a soft inhale of breath, but loud enough for them to both hear.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut as he felt John's lips connect with the corner of his own. In that moment it felt as though the universe did a 360 degree turn, time froze, and everything was completely surreal.

He'd wondered if he imagined the caress on his lips but the soft gasp thst expelled from John debunked that theory. His eyes opened, still wet with tears, and he could see John hovering above him.

He realised John was giving him a chance to back out if that's what he wanted. He expected Sherlock to not to reciprocate the gesture. Should he? What use would it be?

John was a married man and an expecting father. He could never belong to Sherlock, could he? Logic told him that he shouldn't pursue...whatever this is between them. But his heart lay heavy with selfish desire, the urge to kiss John, to at least know what that would be like.

He followed his heart in the end. It was selfish, purely for his own purposes, as he knew after the kiss they would carry on their separate lives. John would be a husband to Mary and a father. Whereas Sherlock would be alone once more.

Pushing that painful thought out of his mind, he made his move, pressing his lips firmer against John's mouth. If this was going to be the only kiss he got with John, he was going to make it a memorable one. He made sure to start out tender, moving slowly and carefully.

John sighed into the kiss, relieved and ecstatic that Sherlock not only returned his feelings but also that he'd been the one to resume the kiss. He hummed and pressed a bit closer, a hand coming up to stroke his cheek as he held himself up with the other but made sure it was close to Sherlock's hip for a little extra contact.

Sherlock flicked his tongue out, running it over John's lower lip, asking for access. 

John slowly opened his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt the tip of Sherlock's tongue slide against his bottom lip again.

Sherlock delved his tongue inside John's open mouth, flicking it against John's tongue. He knew that John probably assumed he was an inexperienced kisser, so he set about to disprove that theory.

John gasped and his eyes shot open as Sherlock's tongue delved into his mouth and began expertly tangling with his own. He'd always thought Sherlock to be an awkward inexperienced virgin. But to be kissed like that... it took his breath away and made his heart stutter in his chest.

Sherlock raised a hand to tenderly cup John's face, thumb smoothing over his cheek lovingly. He tilted John's head to bring a new angle to their kissing, causing both of them to gasp and pant in delight. 

"C-careful, love," John stammered between kisses as they paused for breath. "Don't get too excited. The heart monitor..." He gestured toward the machine, which was beeping rapidly as Sherlock's heart rate accelerated at a somewhat alarming rate. "Mycroft... he's got cameras... he'll know."

Sherlock growled in the back of his throat, frustrated that John interrupted the flow of the kiss. He pulled John by the lapel of his jacket, tugging him, and forcing him to partly lie on top of Sherlock. Then he began kissing John again, this time more insistently, ensuring John would look thoroughly used by the time the kiss ended. 

"Sher--" John moaned and gave himself over completely to the kiss. He allowed Sherlock to push and prod him into place until he was practically laying on top of him, his knees straddling his hips and his hands buried in his hair. He whined softly when Sherlock's tongue began fighting with his own, just a small battle for dominance that he was quickly losing. He didn't care. He never wanted Sherlock to stop kissing him. Never wanted this to end. Never wanted to return to his boring life in the suburbs.

/"You. It's always you,"/ Sherlock's voice told him, an echo of a memory that seemed like a dream.

 

Sherlock allowed his hands to travel down the planes of John back, exploring, before slowly floating to John's bum. He squeezed the globes of flesh and chuckled deeply into the kiss, amused by John's response. 

"Sher," John groaned, the word stretching out long and slow. "Fuck. I... I can't." He was dragged into another kiss.

"I shouldn't."

Kiss.

"Fuck."

Kiss.

"God dammit, Sher."

Kiss, kiss.

"C'mere." He tugged on his hair and kissed him hard, thrusting against him as Sherlock's hands guided his hips and squeezed his arse.

 

Sherlock had envisioned kissing John in many different scenarios, but his imagination hadn’t stretched out as far as what was playing out between them now. There was nothing romantic about the way they moved against each other, nor the way their lips attacked one another, or how they gasped and grunted like animals into each others mouths. This was beyond not an ideal situation to be in, with Sherlock in hospital, and John a married man committing adultery in public. If anyone were to find out then it would be scandalous, and Sherlock would be seen as John’s dirty secret. God, that thought disgusted him. He didn’t want to be a quick fuck for John to have his way with. He wanted more than that, needed more than that after pining after John for years.

As Sherlock gasped into John’s mouth, stomach coiling with arousal, his orgasm imminent, he realised that he didn’t want this. Having John like this in a hospital room, all need and animalistic desire, and no love and affection, was not what he wanted. If he were to have John then he wanted all of him, and not just one small part of him. It had started out as Sherlock following his own selfish desires, but as John moved frantically above him, it felt a lot like John was using him.

He tried to convey that he wanted to stop things, or at the very least slow things down, but John was too deliciously close to pay attention. Sherlock cursed the fact that he didn’t have a voice in that moment, or he would have begged John to stop, would have screamed that he wanted out. Instead, with one final thrust, John came with a satisfied groan. Sherlock followed after him but it wasn’t satisfying, and even as his world turned white around the edges, he felt numb and sick to his stomach.

John lay panting against Sherlock, his legs trembling and his pants sticky with his own release. He hummed and ran his fingers along Sherlock's cheek before grabbing the back of his neck and tilting his face to look at his own.

He wasn't sure what emotions he'd expected to see in their post-orgasmic glows. Maybe a little adoration mixed with euphoria, but the complete look of devastation and disgust on Sherlock's face and in his eyes made John's heart stop and his breath stutter in his lungs.

/Oh no. What have I done wrong? I thought he wanted this? After I told him I loved him... I thought he'd be happy. Why isn't he happy?/

"Sher?" he whispered, his hand cupping his cheek.

Sherlock pushed John’s hand away from his cheek, a scowl marring his features. He placed his hands on John’s shoulders and pushed him a little rougher than was necessary, forcing him off of the hospital bed.

*I don’t want this.* he signed, chest feeling tight with emotion. *I thought I did. But I don’t. Not like this.*

John stumbled back off the bed, catching himself on the chair he'd been napping in earlier. He frowned, his brow creased in confusion, hurt.

"What? Don't want this? But... Mycroft told me... Oh." His face fell a bit as he realized what he assumed Sherlock meant. "You don't want this to be a one-off."

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. He didn't sign anything as that would mean admitting John was right. But...He was right. Sherlock didn't want to be a one off kiss and shag, not with John. He didn't want the kiss they shared to be a one time occasion. He wanted John to choose him, to fall asleep in bed wrapped up in each other's arms, to wake up in the mornings and make love to one another. He wanted John to reassure him over and over that he was the only person he loved and belonged to.

The reality of the situation came shattering down on him. Even if John wanted that too, he was married to Mary, and was expecting his first child with her. He knew that John was loyal and true, so he would never leave Mary whilst she was pregnant with his child. He would always go home to her, only kissing and fucking Sherlock in the brief moments of privacy that they could get together. Then Sherlock would be left alone, feeling half alive as John slept with a warm body to heat his bones.

Right now Sherlock felt used. John clearly hadn't had sex for a long while. Sherlock deduced thst the last time John had a proper orgasm was just a little after Mary shot him. Probably a real romance killer, that.

But of course John was a man of primal desire. There's a reason he's known as three continents Watson.  
He'd used Sherlock's moment of weakness, and had had his filthy way with the detective. He'd probably just been swept away in the moment of lust and urgent need to find some kind of release. And now...now Sherlock was left aching like he'd been shot all over again.

How could he make John see how much he was hurting? Didn't John understand what he was offering wasn't enough for Sherlock? He needed a stable relationship to ground him. This thing that happened between them wasn't enough, it made him feel like the entire universe had flipped, like nothing would ever be OK again.

Regret began to seep into his heart, his mind, and sunk deep into his bones. Until every part of him ached and burned with a yearning to rewrite the past. To tell John how much he'd wanted him from the start, to beg him not to marry Mary, to tell him that if John wanted he could have every part of him. But it was too late. Too much had happened, too much stood between them, and they would never be able to love each other or be together like Sherlock had desperately wanted for years.

John swallowed thickly around the lump of emotion gathering in his throat, the tension in the room palpable enough that it was probably seeping out into the hall. He sat down in the chair, grimacing a bit as the feel of his cold, sticky ejaculate drying in his pants. He covered his face in his hands, the harsh feel of his wedding ring a searing sting against his burning hot flesh.

/You're a fucking idiot, John Watson,/ he chastised himself. /You should have come out years ago. Saved the two of you so much time and trouble. Look what holding back has got you. A dreadful wife, an unplanned pregnancy, and a best friend who's been so miserable since the engagement that's he's been actively avoiding you to keep himself sane. No wonder he turned back to drugs. You've been nothing but trouble. Hadn't Mycroft said I could make him better, or worse than ever? God, it looks like I've done both. Why do you to constantly fuck up everything good in your life, John? Why can't you let yourself be happy for once in your goddamned life? Everything is your fault!/

He clenched his hands into fists, the ring biting into his skin. He huffed loudly and practically tore it off his finger, almost chucking it at the wall before thinking better of it and just clenching it in his hand until he could feel the imprint of it against his palm.

"I'm sorry," he grit out, breathing laboured. "I've fucked up everything. Our friendship, my marriage, my life... our life." He swallowed again, still staring at his clenched fists, not able to look at Sherlock just yet. "I can't... I don't want this to be a casual fling. I don't want to be married anymore... unless it's to you. I don't want this miserable life I've been living the past few months. I want what we had back, with the added benefit of being able to kiss you whenever I want. I... I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much it hurts, and that I can't be with you because of my marriage is slowly killing me every damn day. I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend... a better person to you. I... hmmm." He closed his eyes and hung his head, a thick cloud of regret and guilt and anguish drenching him to the bone, his body twitching and shivering as the emotions threatened to sweep him away with the tide.

Sherlock reached out and grasped John's shoulder, squeezing it gently. When John looked at him he smiled sadly, lips trembling. He pulled back his hand to sign, slow and poignant.

*What's done is done. You made your bed, so lie in it. But I don't think I can do this. It hurts so much. Look at what I've become. Look at what I did. I almost killed myself because of you. I think...It would be best if we part ways. I deserve to be happy. I deserve more than you can offer me. Please, if you love me let me go.*

John tried not to smile around his tears, but he couldn't help it. His emotions were in disarray and his heart was in pieces. He sat back in the chair and stared at the ceiling, tears falling down his cheeks.

"God, Sherlock," he choked out around a pained laugh. "I haven't got a fucking clue what you just said. I'm sorry. My sign language is rubbish and you... I couldn't understand much of what you've been saying all damn day. I've just been filling in the gaps by guessing." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets, the dull physical pain better than the sharp emotional pain at the moment.

"I'm bloody rubbish at everything it would seem. Friendship, marriage, fatherhood. Hell, my kid isn't even here yet and I'm already fucking terrified of just how bad I'm gonna fuck it all up. I... I can't do this. Any of this. I need a break, from everything in my life. I'm too close to breaking myself... or someone else." His hands slid down his face and landed with a soft slap onto his lap, the hand holding the ring opening up to face the ceiling. He didn't dare look down at it, or Sherlock, afraid of what he would see.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to comfort John, but he was a crumbling mess himself, barely holding himself together. And now...John couldn't understand him. Why did everything have to be so damn complicated lately? He curled up on his side, ignoring the stab of pain coming from his stitches, and he began to cry silently. 

"No. No," John mumbled, shaking his head. "Don't cry, Sherlock. Please don't cry." He stood up and crawled back onto the bed, wrapping Sherlock up in his arms, but being mindful of his stitches.

"Please don't cry," he whispered against the back of his neck before pressing a gentle kiss there.

 

 

Sherlock flinched away from John's warm lips. Didn't John understand how much this was tearing him up inside?

He tried to wriggle out of John's firm grip, but as he did so, he caught his stitches. He couldn't ignore the pain now and he groaned loudly, as he felt a damp patch spread beneath him.

"Oh, shit." John shot out of bed and called for help, pushing the call button for good measure. He ran back to Sherlock and took his jacket off, pressing it against Sherlock's bleeding side after turning him over.

"Don't die on me, Sherlock," he grit out between his clenched teeth. "Not again. Don't you do this to me again."

Sherlock groaned in even more discomfort as John pressed his jacket against the open wound. His breathing came out in short, sharp spurts as he tried to control the pain.

The private medical staff rushed into the room and pushed John out of the way, but no matter how hard they insisted, John refused to leave the room itself, obviously wanting to make sure Sherlock received the adequate treatment. This time John wasn't running away from Sherlock's pain.

When the staff started to lift Sherlock's hospital sheet off of him he started to panic, limbs thrashing wildly. If John saw him topless then he'd see the scars, and he would know /everything/ that Sherlock had worked fruitlessly to keep John in the dark about.

But his struggling was fought, the material lifted, and his marked and marred skin revealed. The medical staff were currently obscuring John's view, but once his wound was cleaned and stitched, they cleared and John could see everything.

The horror of John's face must be similar to how he looked when one of the boys under his charge had been hurt in the army. Sherlock watched the flit of emotions on his best friend's face. Horror of what Sherlock must have been through, guilt that he wasn't there to stop the pain and the torture, and questions about what sort of weapons had been used to inflict wounds so deep that they were barely starting to heal. That was just his front. If John could see his back too then Sher is sure the man would be violently sick.

When John came closer, lips parted as though to say something, Sherlock pointed towards the door poignantly. He signed that he wanted to John to leave immediately, and didn't want his pity. But of course...John didn't understand. So Sherlock chose to make a very childish and rude gesture. Even John, with his terrible understanding of sign language, would understand that Sherlock was telling him to fuck off.

At first, John was angry. Angry that Sherlock would demand he leave when all he wanted to do was help. Angry that their situation had altered so drastically in so many different directions in just hours and he had no idea where it was headed next. Angry at himself for being so stupidly selfish and taking what he'd wanted from Sherlock in his current condition.

Then his anger turned into guilt. Guilt at taking advantage of Sherlock when he was barely strong enough to lift his arms. Guilt at cheating on his pregnant wife with his best friend. Guilt at bringing Sherlock the dirty magazines he'd obviously wanted to keep hidden.

And then his guilt manifested itself into crippling despair. He straightened himself to stand at attention, like a proper soldier, and grabbed his jacket, patches of Sherlock's blood soaking through the material. He sniffed in an undignified manner and nodded curtly, trying to school his emotions into indifference. He turned to leave, but then remembered the file Mycroft had given him. He turned on his heel in a perfect about-face maneuver and stalked back over to the bed, picking it up from the floor and tucking it under his arm, staring at Sherlock the entire time. With the file gathered, he returned Sherlock's rude gesture and turned on his heel again, stomping out of the room and closing the door, just barely stopping it from slamming shut.

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

Mycroft Holmes was almost bowled over by a furious John Watson. He held out his umbrella, stopping the man in his tracks. “And where, may I ask, do you think you’re going?"

"Piss off," he spat, snatching the umbrella out of Mycroft's hand and throwing it onto the floor.

Mycroft reached down and grasped his umbrella and picked it up, eyes narrowing.

"John," he said, voice like venom. "I suggest you calm down." 

John was already past him down the hall, glaring at anyone he saw.

"Take care of your brother!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Because I just fuck everything up!"

 

Mycroft clicked his fingers and two security guards seamlessly appeared. They grabbed John tight and restrained him from moving any further. When John started to kick off, even more pissed off about being manhandled, they pressed a sedative into the side of his neck and he slid down between them almost instantly.

* * *

 

John woke up in Mycroft's office, but still in the private medical facility.

"'Course you've a bloody office here," he grunted, brain still sluggish from the sedative.

“Apologies about the drastic measures, John. But needs must in these trying times.” His lips curled in amusement as John fought off the sedative still in his system. “You understand why I kept you here, don’t you?"

"Haven't the foggiest," John grunted, vaguely waving at his head to indicate the very bad pun he'd just made about his current state. Though he was slightly impressed he was coherent enough to even make puns, even if it was a terrible joke.

Mycroft pulled out a wad of pictures taken in Sherlock's recovery room on the CCTV cameras. The images showed John kissing Sherlock, lying on top of him, and then frotting against the poor man beneath him.

"I'm appalled that after what I told you, that you acted so quickly and in such a tasteless manner."

"You need to stop with the bloody CCTV everywhere Sherlock goes," he growled, though it was far less menacing due to the sedative still in his system. "Sherlock is a goddamn adult. You don't have to watch over him like his a toddler. Stop bloody coddling him."

 

"Perhaps I'll stop when I am in the safe knowledge your wife is no longer alive."

John clearly took this as a threat of some sort and he lunged at Mycroft, but ended up stumbling because of his poor coordination and tumbled to the floor.

"Dear me." Mycroft's lips curled in amusement. "So protective of Mary. After she shot Sherlock and lied to you for months?" 

"It's not Mary, or whatever the hell her name is, that I'm protecting," he growled, able to lift his upper body enough to glare at Mycroft. "It's my child. My /unborn/ child. Don't you dare put her life in danger. She hasn't done anything to warrant threats. She's just a victim of poor circumstance. So don't you /dare/ threaten my child!"

“Are you certain she’s yours?” Mycroft asked, voice taunting. “Wasn’t there an ex on the scene? Hmm, let me recollect. Oh yes, David, I think his name was.”

"Don't," John whispered, his entire demeanor deflating. "Don't say that. Don't take her away from me. After what happened with Sherlock and Mary... if my baby isn't even mine... it would kill me. Further proof that Mary's done nothing but lie to me since we met. Fuck. I bet even our meeting as staged."

 

“Quite.” Mycroft pursed his lips together in a tight line in agreement. “But you needn’t worry on that account. Sherlock ensured David stayed away from Mary. In fact he went to great lengths to ensure your marriage stayed in tact, even before the day of the wedding. You have no idea how much my baby brother has sacrificed just to protect you and your happiness.”

Mycroft stood and pulled out a file labelled A.G.R.A and he passed it over to John. “It would seem your first meeting with your wife was earlier than you can remember. At the poolside? The sniper that was prepared to shoot you dead at Moriarty’s command? It’s all a bit coincidental, don’t you think? And you know what the Holmes view of coincidences is, don’t you?"

"Christ," John groaned, rubbing at his forehead. "Fucking hell. I knew it. After seeing her shoot that coin... I had a feeling she'd been working with... or for Moriarty at some point. Her gun handling was too good for her not to have caught his attention."

 

“Moriarty wasn’t a man, John.” Mycroft said in an incredulous tone of voice, looking at John like he was an idiot. “The man you met by the poolside was just the face of the organisation. The real genius behind everything that has ever happened to you and Sherlock lies in your bed at home. She even orchestrated Sherlock’s fall, forced him to fake his death, because she knew it was the perfect opportunity to get to his sidekick. It was always her plan to make you fall in love with her, John. But in order to do that she needed to get rid of Sherlock, because she was more than aware of how you feel."

"Fucking hell," John groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He pulled himself back up into the chair he'd fallen from and sighed deeply.

"Is every person in my life a psychopath?" He immediately held a finger up before Mycroft could respond. "Don't answer that."

 

"Now isn't the time for self pity, John." Mycroft chastised. "You should be making plans. You fathered "Moriarty’s" child. No doubt news will have gotten around. Your daughter is a bargaining chip and will be in danger the moment she is born. I can offer my protection and my services to keep you and your daughter safe but you won't like it."

"When have I ever liked the services you've so wonderfully provided?" John asked, sarcasm thick in his voice and body language. "What do you want in exchange for your services this time?"

 

"Exchange? Nothing. You've proven yourself worthy for Holmes protection years ago. I must tell you, however, that you would have to leave Sherlock behind. You do want to protect your daughter, don't you?"

"Leave Sherlock?" John paused and had to seriously think about that. He would have to leave Sherlock behind in order to save his daughter's life. He'd probably have to leave England, move out to America or somewhere remote, live a life on the run to keep his child safe. But what kind of life would that be? His daughter deserved better than that. And she'd always be on the run whether she was with him or with Mary. She'd never be safe.

"That isn't..." He tried to speak, but found he struggled over his words. "She won't... She'll never be safe. Ever. No matter who she's with. Me or Mary or you or Sherlock. My daughter will never have a safe, normal, happy life."

"She will be safe." Mycroft said with a tone of finality. "If she dies. If you both die."

John sucking in a harsh breath. "Which she do you mean in this situation?" he whispered. "My daughter? Or... Moriarty?"

"Your daughter will be safe." Mycroft reassured him. "But you and your daughter must be seen to die."

John caught on to the choice of words and looked up at Mycroft. "/Seen/ to die? You mean... fake our deaths and run away?"

"Precisely." Mycroft confirmed. "I can assure you that you will both be under the best protection. You will be able to raise your daughter in peace. Under an alias, of course. John Hamish Watson will cease to exist."

John looked down at his lap, pondering over what Mycroft was offering. A chance for a fresh start, just him and his daughter. A new life, away from England, away from the dangerous lifestyle he'd always lived. But to fake his death, run away from everything he'd ever known, with no guarantee he or his daughter would be safe? He wasn't sure he could do it.

"I... I need to think about this," he said after silent contemplation. "There are only two people I care about in my life: my daughter is one and the other is your brother. But to run off and live under assumed identities, just like her mother? I don't think I could choose that life for my daughter."

"Of course, you realise, you must do this for Sherlock, as well as your daughter." Mycroft stood and poured them both a large glass of wine. "Moriarty has promised to burn his heart out and at this point /you/ have become his heart. His heart must be destroyed. That's all she wants. That's everything she's hoped for since she walked into your life."

"She's wanted me dead since the moment I showed up." He accepted the wine and held it, not drinking. "So why hasn't she tried to kill me? Sherlock's been back for nearly two years."

"Human error." Mycroft scoffed, his lips curling into an almost snarl. "She fell in love with you."

John scoffed and shook his head, his glass of wine still untouched. "Fell in love with me," he whispered dejectedly. "People always assumed Sherlock and Moriarty were secretly an item... but I'm the one who married her. Jesus Christ." He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. "If my daughter and I run away... what will happen to Mary?"

"She will be destroyed." Mycroft sipped at his wine, a gleeful gleam in his eyes.

"Don't sound so fucking excited," John grumbled. "People might begin to think /you're/ the psychopath and Mary is innocent."

"And I care because?" Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "I'm untouchable."

John snorted for real that time, tucking his face behind his arm as he tried to stifle his laughter.

"God, you think you're so fucking invincible. Is that a Holmes trait? Or just something you and Sherlock picked up along your jealous road to constantly one-up each other?"

"Sherlock and I are survivors, John."Mycroft's gaze fell to the glass of wine he was holding. "Not all of us were so lucky."

John sighed and stared at his own glass of wine, seeing his muddled reflection in the almost blood-red drink. How very appropriate.

"Don't keep him in the dark about this," he said to his glass. "Sherlock deserves to know what's going on. Where I've gone. /Why/ I'm gone. He deserves to have something to fight for, so he doesn't give up on himself. He'll need months of physio to get his voice back, and when he does you know he won't ever stop using it until he finds me. Finds us." He finally looked back up at Mycroft to stare right into his snake-like eyes. "Tell him."

"I made the mistake of divulging information of sentimental value before." Mycroft sipped at the dark red drink. "And it led to our sisters death." 

"Sister?" John blinked, nearly dropping his glass in shock. "The Holmes brothers had a sister?"

  
Mycroft was forced to put his glass down, as his hand began to shake and he appeared to pale significantly. His expression grew distant and very sad.

"Enola Holmes."

"You lot certainly do like obscure names," John murmured, finally taking a big gulp of his wine. "I'm sorry for your loss. What happened to her?"

"She was murdered." Mycroft closed his eyes, pained. "I failed to protect her."

"I'm sorry," John murmured,hanging his head. "How long ago was it?"

"I was seventeen, Sherlock ten years old. She was just fourteen years old. Too young."

"Ah. Well, that explains the age gap between you two." He sighed and finished his wine, setting the glass down on Mycroft's desk. "I'm very sorry for your family. I can see why you don't talk about her if her memory still causes so much emotion to pour through the cracks."

"All lives end, John. All hearts are broken."

"Yeah, I've heard that before." He looked up at him and smirked at the confused expression on his face. "Sherlock said the exact same thing you just did in a later case. I figured it had to have come from you."

"Don't," John bit out. "You can't leave him too. After his sister, and now I'll have to fake my death to save my daughter's life. He's going to be alone, Mycroft. He's going to need you more than ever, because I'm not going to be there for him."

"I've thought about it on several occasions." Mycroft stated, voice void of emotion, stating a cold fact. "But protecting my brother precedes any ideations I may suffer from. " 

"Right," John mumbled, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "So, um, Mary's due in a couple of months. Will I be allowed to help Sherlock with his physio until then?"

"You must act as perfectly normal as you are able to." Mycroft conceded with a small nod. "Or else he will suspect your death isn't real."

"I'm sure he'll figure it out anyway," John said, sighing deeply. "He's the world's only consulting detective. He didn't give himself that title for shits and giggles."

"I believe that he is too close to the situation. Too emotionally involved..." Mycroft pursed his lips together in an unhappy line. "And that will blind him from seeing the truth."

"No, yeah, you're right," John mumbled, nodding. "I just... I don't want him to get to a dark place again."

"I can assure you that my brother will receive the very best care. He will be hit hard, of that I am certain, but eventually he will move."

Mycroft looked as though he were hiding a smile.

"I own a gentleman's club. Over the years Sherlock has become quite a popular regular, I believe. Abundant sexual activity is far healthier than drug use, don't you think doctor Watson?"

John looked mildly horrified at the thought of Sherlock in a gentleman's club. And in /Mycroft's/ gentleman's club no less. He blinked rapidly for a few moments before coming back to himself.

"Yes. No. Um... right." He coughed and cleared his throat. "Shall I leave then? You'll keep me updated on how things will play out?"

"You'll hear from me soon." Mycroft dismissed John. "In the meantime do refrain from having sexual relations with my brother."

Ha. Ha," John said dryly. He stood up, only mildly woozy now, and grabbed his jacket that had been hung by the door. It had obviously been dry-cleaned recently as the spots of Sherlock's blood were gone.

"How long was I out?" He asked, indicating the spotless jacket.

“A day, or so.” Mycroft’s voice remained as steady and deadpan as ever. “You kept on having violent outbursts whenever Sherlock was mentioned. My staff had you sedated until you were able to think and act rationally.”

"A... a day?" John's hand froze on his jacket, gripping it hard enough to make the faux leather crackle. "You had me sedated for an entire bloody day?!"

""For your own good, doctor Watson." Mycroft said snidely. "You were quite distraught. Did you read the file?"

"Well, I've been asleep for the past day and a half. So unless I absorbed the information through osmosis, no, I haven't read it."

"I suggest you read it. Hard times are ahead, John. You'll need to prepare yourself."

"I'll get right on it," John said honestly, picking up the file from Mycroft's desk. "I might as well be prepared these last few months before I have to disappear."

"I'll be in touch." Mycroft made a small hand gesture and his security guards guided John out of the room

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

John shrugged his jacket on and tucked the file under his arm, standing tall as he was lead out of the hospital. He saw Sherlock's room ahead and sucked in a deep breath.

"I'd like to stop in," he said to the guards. "Apologise."

The guards exchanged a brief glance before nodding. "Alright." He said. "But no funny business."

"I promised your boss I wouldn't try anything else with Sherlock. And I'm nothing if not a man of my word." He stood outside Sherlock's room for a moment, gathering himself before pushing open the door and heading inside, the guards standing watch outside.

Sherlock was sleeping peacefully for once, his bare chest falling and rising with his even breathing. He vaguely heard John entering the room but did not rouse.

John approached his bedside, placing the large file on one of the end tables. He stood and watched Sherlock sleep, having never seen him look so relaxed in all the time they'd spent together. On instinct, he reached out and smoothed a curl away from his forehead, his fingers running through his hair before pulling it away. "

I, um, ahem," he mumbled, clearing his throat. "I just wanted to stop by and apologise for what I did to you the other day. You... you deserve more than a quick romp in the sack. You... you deserve someone who will actually make you happy. I, um... I need to go home and, you know. Be with Mary." He sucked in a breath and tilted his face up to prevent his unexpected tears from falling. He blinked them away, sucking in another breath before looking down at Sherlock's sleeping form once more.

"I'll be here to help you with your physio, and anything else you may need," he told him. He reached down and took Sherlock's hand, his palm incredibly warm against his clammy one, gently running his thumb over his knuckles. "But, um, don't be a stranger, OK? Send me a text once in a while. Deduce someone for me. Or demand I bring you your favorite pistachio ice cream. Anything at all. Just let me know." He found himself leaning forward to press a tender kiss on Sherlock's forehead, his hand squeezing his in a silent gesture to let him know he would be there for him. "I... I'll see you soon, Sherlock," he whispered against his skin, swallowing down the words he knew would destroy them both.

Sherlock squeezed the hand entangled with his, smiling in his sleep as he felt lips press against his forehead.

John smiled and gently squeezed back before letting go. He pulled the blankets up higher to keep Sherlock warm, but managed to refrain from tucking him in like a child. He grabbed the file from the table and left the room, the guards escorting him out to a sleek, unmarked black car.

* * *

 

Mary knew that she was losing John bit by bit, all of the love and affection he once held for her withering away, quickly becoming replaced by bitterness and resentment. No matter how many times he reassured her that he would stick by her side, that her past didn’t matter to him, that she was Mary Watson and that was good enough for him, she knew that deep down he wanted to get out of their relationship. The only thing left tying them together as a couple, a reminder of the many happy months they spent together, was the child that now resided in her womb. No matter what happened between them as a couple, there was a silent agreement between them, that their daughter would be loved by both of them and wouldn’t be used as a bargaining chip.

She sighed wearily and looked down at her growing bump. She was now undeniably pregnant and it was starting to take its toll on her body. She spent most of her days sleeping, eating, and feeling emotionally overwhelmed. Nothing could have prepared her for motherhood and now that it was happening it felt surreal, almost like it was happening to someone else, but as her movements and daily tasks became restricted it became obvious that this was one thing she would not be able to run away from.

Lately it felt as though she was a single mother and not a married woman expecting her first child with her husband. John’s interest in both her and the child seemed to be dwindling. There was so much to do before their daughter arrived, and yet John seemed to be in some kind of denial, and they were nowhere near prepared. That’s how Mary found herself redecorating the spare room all by herself, whilst John was away once again, spending more time in hospital with Sherlock than at home with his wife and daughter.

The mixture of paint fumes, exhaustion, and emotional upset as she longed for John to show interest in the prospect of their daughter’s birth, proved to be too much. As she slicked the wall with a fresh layer of paint, she felt a wave of dizziness wash over her, and she staggered back. The paint roller dropped from her hand and landed in the tray of liquid with a wet splat. A harsh pain rippled along her side and she was forced to slide down to the floor as her legs were suddenly unable to carry her weight. Hands flying to her stomach, she let out a pained gasp, as her daughter moved in distress. She was exhausted, covered in paint and felt a whisker away from having a mental breakdown.

She closed her eyes tight, hoping to quell the tears. She was strong, she was a trained assassin, she didn’t cry. Emotion was nothing but a weakness, found on the losing side. She can’t…cry…she….

As she heard the jangle of keys and John’s familiar footsteps her resolve crumbled. The strain that had been placed upon their relationship, the stress of being thrown into unexpected motherhood, and the overwhelming loneliness that she felt had all become too much to bear. At first just a few tears pricked at the underside of her eyelids, but as John approached and called out her name, those tears escaped and quickly began to cascade down her cheeks in a wet waterfall of droplets. 

"Mary?!" John tossed his keys onto the end table by the door and ran to the spare room. He smelled fresh paint, so he made an educated guess as to where she was. He ran into the room and slid onto the floor next to her, placing a comforting hand on her back and belly.

"Mary? Honey? What's wrong?" He asked, keeping his voice calm and level.

Mary immediately curled into John's warm embrace, seeking comfort from her husband that she so desperately needed. Her tears soon soaked through his shirt and against his neck as she tried to convey what was wrong. 

"Easy, Mary," John murmured, rubbing a hand soothingly up and down her back. "Breathe. In for six counts, out for nice. Shhhh. Shhh. That's it. In again, and out."

Mary listened to John's soothing voice, her breathing slowly evening out. As her sobs died down she slumped forwards, pale and limp, body suddenly deathly still.

"Mary? Mary? Come on, hun. Let's get you out of here and into bed." He helped her stand but quickly realised he'd need to carry her to their bedroom as she kept slumping into his arms. "It's been a while since I've had to do this, so bear with me, alright?"

He took a deep breath and wrapped one arm around her shoulders and hooked the other beneath her knees, hauling her up and holding her as tight as he dared with their precious cargo between them. He stumbled off to their bedroom and placed her down on the bed, gently pushing and pulling her into a comfortable position.

"I'm gonna get you out of these paint clothes and into some pyjamas, OK?" He whispered to her. "And I'll finish painting the nursery. Don't you worry about a thing."

Mary was vaguely aware that John was removing her paint covered clothes, shivering as her skin was exposed and she felt John's touch for the first time in months. His fingers seemed to trace over her curves, lingering over her naked form, as though they were trying to relearn her. Behind her closed eyelids she could sense that he was eyeing her up with concern, and rightfully so, as she had never looked so pale or fragile.

Since John's distance she'd stopped caring about herself, only eating enough to sustain the child within her. As a result she looked painfully ill and washed out. The woman with fire in heart and soul was now but a mere shadow of herself. 

"I'm going to get you some water and biscuits," John murmured to her as he awkwardly pulled her nightgown onto her body. "I'll be right back." He placed a kiss to her forehead before heading out to the kitchen, searching out some digestive biscuits that would be gentle on her stomach.

Mary drifted in and out of awareness. She could hear John talking softly to her, running his hands through her hair, treating her as something fragile. He hadn't been this friendly to her in months. Not since they'd spent Christmas with Mr and Mrs Holmes and Sherlock shot Magnussen. His touches lingered with regret and his voice sounded sorrowful, as he wrapped his body around her for warmth and protection. 

"I'm sorry I haven't been here for you and our baby," he whispered, sliding his hand over Mary's stomach, feeling their child shift within. "I haven't been the greatest husband, but I... I'm vowing to rectify that. I promise to be here for you and our child, to take care of you both. I swear."

He sighed and toed off his shoes, kicking them off the bed to cuddle closer to her more comfortably.

Mary relaxed as John's presence soothed her. Her eyes gradually flickered open and she found herself staring into John's concerned bluish pools. A small smile broke across her face before she could stop it.

"Hey."

"Hey," he whispered, smoothing a lock of her hair out of her face. "You feeling alright?"

She considered telling John how drained and absolutely not alright she felt, but decided against it.

"I'm alright," she said, but she wasn't, and perhaps things would never be alright again.

"Mary," John said softly. "Please don't lie to me. I know you. I'm not Sherlock. I can tell when you're fibbing."

Mary exhaled shakily, shivering in John's arms, causing him to tighten his grip on her. She felt the words build and build, until they almost choked her, her voice sounding as defeated as she felt.

"I have prenatal depression." The words lingered in the air between them.

 

John fought the urge to say "Oh" as if Mary's depression wasn't a big deal. Instead, he held her a bit closer and kissed the nape of her neck.

"I'm sorry, honey," he whispered, nuzzling his nose behind her ear. "I had no idea you were feeling this way. I feel I'm partially to blame. I haven't been here for you. But... I promise I'll be here more often as the birth of our baby girl approaches. I'm going to be here for the two of you. I swear."

"It's just..." Mary shuddered, her words sounding like a breathy sob. "Ever since I was a child people expected me to be a killing thing. I never knew any different. I do now and all I want is to be a good mum. But I'm not, am I?"

A wave of guilt swept over John, picturing Mary dead without even having a chance to be a mother. He inhaled deep, swallowing it down before it could overtake him. Instead, he grabbed one of her hands and rested them both on the swell of her stomach.

"You're a wonderful mum, Mary," he told her. "You've taken such good care of our baby girl, read to her, played music for her, and given her a safe and loving home for the past seven months. You're doing so well, honey."

"You always say the right things."

Mary turned towards John and initiated a kiss. It had been months since they'd had sex and both of them were left gasping. John was a man that lived off pleasure, his mood drastically effected by how often he got laid. Lately He'd been in a foul and distant mood and she wanted to change that. 

John hummed and returned her kiss, running a hand through her hair before cupping her jaw to help guide the kiss. His other hand slid up her belly to her breasts and began to gently fondle one, feeling her nipple harden beneath his palm.

"Oh god." Mary gasped as John's hands did unspeakable things to her. "John, oh god, please...Please."

"How do you want to cum today, Mary?" John growled in her ear. "I think I'll be able to coax multiple from you. Shall we start with my wicked tongue?" He licked the shell of her ear with said tongue and nibbled on her earlobe.

Mary leaned into the warm caress of John's lips, gasping and begging for more. Meanwhile, she snaked a hand downwards, her fingers seeking out her cliturous and slowly stroking the area.

"You remember what it was like, don't you? Us. Fucking each other senseless."

"'Course I do," John panted, sucking a kiss mark onto her neck. "I'm fairly certain that's how this little one came to be." He slid his hand over her baby bump, feeling their daughter kick on his way down to Mary's cunt. He gently batted her fingers away and replaced them with his own, dipping them down to gather some of her juices before dragging them back up to wet her clit for a pleasurable, slick slide.

"I know you're worried I'll run off after I give birth." Mary swallowed past a moan. "But I can't go anywhere if you keep me pregnant. We could, you know. Daddy Watson filling me with children. Everyone would know how fertile you are, how you're getting tons of mind blowing sex. We could try for twins. If I take some fertility drugs maybe even triplets."

John's pupils darkened, his fingers slowing down, drooling a bit.

"Fuck, Mary," he groaned, his cock hardening painfully fast in his pants.

"Do you want that?" Mary reached out and palmed John's cock through his pants, squeezing it tight.

John moaned and grunted as she fondled him through his jeans. His mind conjured up images of small blonde children running through a house, chasing one another as he chased after them. Mary was watching from the sitting room, her belly round with yet another child. He'd always wanted a large, loving, happy family because his family was anything but growing up. Mary could give him that. Give him the family he'd been craving since he was seven years old.

But with Mycroft's threat (or deal depending on how one looked at it) looming over him, that dream would never become a reality. He would have his daughter, /their/ daughter, and she would be his only child. Could he live with what he was going to do?

He would have to.

He didn't have a choice.

"Hey." Mary frowned as she watched some of John's enthusiasm simmer away. She removed her hand from his crotch and tenderly stroked his face.

"I know what you must think of me. But I'm not...A monster. I did what I did because I hadn't any other choice. The men that Magnussen would have contacted would have raped and killed me. They would have hurt our daughter, would have ended her life before she even had a chance to begin. Years ago I wouldn't have cared if I lived or died. But I have something to live for now."

Her breathing was shaky and her cheeks peppered in a rosy blush that had nothing to do with arousal.Her eyes, blue and wild, began to shimmer with tears.

"You, our child, and the man who made a vow to us. I don't want to lose any of you. Please...I can't lose you. Before I had you two I had no one. I was completely alone, John. I'd been alone since I was a child. And that was OK because alone was all I had, alone protected me. But that's not true, is it? Friends protect people." 

Her words struck a chord inside him. He'd heard those words before. Practically verbatim.

He and Sherlock had had this exact conversation before. At Bart's. Before the fall.

"You were there," he whispered, eyes losing focus as he got caught in the memory. "You... you were one of the snipers Sherlock said were targeting me and Mrs Hudson and Greg. You... you were /there!/ You were working for Moriarty!"

Mary nodded, not denying it. She looked directly into John's eyes, noting his conflicting emotions.

"I would never have..." She quickly trailed off, as she realised there was no point in defending her actions. "He was going to kill me if I didn't do as he said. He would have...just like he murdered my family." 

John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Mycroft had told him Mary was the real Moriarty. That the man Sherlock had been playing with was merely a face. He'd bedded, married, and impregnated the true Moriarty. So this was just another lie she was feeding him to garner sympathy. But he had to play along so she wouldn't become suspicious of what Mycroft had planned for her.

"So... you did have a family?" He managed to say after a tense few moments of silence. "You aren't an orphan."

"He killed them John. He left me all alone in this world. He told me that I had to work for him or he would kill me too..." 

/Lies,/ John's brain told him. /Just more lies. You can't trust her. You can trust Sherlock. Go back to him. He needs you./

*Later,* he mentally chastised himself. *Later.*

Out loud he said, "I'm sorry, honey. I'm so sorry." He nuzzled her jaw with his nose and sighed. "Let's get you into some pyjamas and have you rest. I'll go finish painting the nursery."

Mary nodded and struggled into a sitting position, noting that John had placed biscuits and a glass of water on the bedside table whilst she'd been sleeping. She smiled feebly at her husband and reached out to grab a biscuit.

"Go paint the nursery. I'll be OK."

"Call me if you need anything," John murmured, kissing her forehead. "Anything at all."

"I'll be fine." She assured him."At least I will be now you're here. I love you, John."

"I love you too, Mary." He kissed her sweetly and smoothed a hand through her hair, longer than it had been during the wedding. She'd been growing it out until it curled like Sherlock's, hoping to make herself seem more attractive if she resembled the man he had a massive crush on.

Mary tugged the duvet cover over her naked form and her eyes began to flutter shut. She was comforted by John's presence and for the first time in weeks was able to fall asleep with ease.

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

John slipped away and changed into some clothes he wouldn't mind getting paint on versus his jumper and nicest jeans. He went into the nursery and just stood there, looking around at the room and the soft yellow walls, nearly finished, and the little animal stencils to be added later. Now that he knew that all their hard work would go to waste he almost didn't want to finish the room. But he had to act as if he didn't know Mycroft's plan, to go on as if nothing was wrong. So, with a heavy sigh, he rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a paint roller, and began to finish the walls of the nursery that would never be used.

* * *

 

Sherlock was released from the hospital after a long and arduous recovery process. The doctors at the private facility were happy to let him go home, now that the seizures had ceased and the damage to his body had been assessed. He would still need speech therapy and would also need to go through extensive physiotherapy to regain strength in his legs.

He hadn't seen John in weeks. Not since the "incident" between them, even. It wasn't as though John hadn't tried to reach out to him. It was Sherlock that pushed him away. He felt shame well up inside him at the thought of being in John's presence, now nothing more than a broken junkie in his eyes. John deserved more...had more. He had a wife and a baby on the way. What could Sherlock offer him?

Sherlock was picked up by one of his brother’s drivers and taken to a rehabilitation center, where he would remain until he could prove he wouldn't go running back to the drugs when the going gets tough. There a deep depression settled over him and he became utterly miserable.

He was surprised when Mycroft himself turned up to visit him, carrying a game of Operation under his arm. He looked up at older man with tired eyes and sighed.

"Must you look so cheerful?"

 

"It's nice to see you too, brother mine," Mycroft said as he sat in the chair opposite Sherlock. "And it's wonderful to hear your speech therapy is going well. And it's only been a week."

Sherlock's lips sealed shut and he scowled furiously. It wasn't that...He couldn't speak. It was far closer to selective muteness, caused by emotional turmoil. His brother had caught him out and was now eyeing him up suspiciously.

"Ah. I see." He put the game down on the table between them and began to set up. "If you don't feel like talking that's perfectly fine with me. I didn't come to chat anyhow. I came to pass on some news."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gestured for Mycroft to continue.

"I've noticed that John hasn't been allowed to visit you yet," he began as he set the tiny pieces into the Operation game board. "I would say I was surprised, but after what happened between you two I can't say that I am. And now he's going to become a father in a matter of days, and I was curious as to your state of mind." He put the last piece into place and gently rested his chin on the fist his interlaced fingers made. "How are you doing, Sherlock?" he asked sincerely, worried about how Sherlock was going to cope once John and his daughter disappeared.

Sherlock glared at his brother, fire burning his his eyes. He ground his teeth together, jaw clenching.

* I'm fine. Nothing happened.*

"That's not what the CCTV says. Why aren't you letting him in? You're wasting what little time together you have left before fatherhood sucks him away." He picked up the little tweezers and held them between them. "Do you wish to go first or shall I?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair in annoyance. Mycroft KNEW why he was keeping John at arms length. It was obvious. Elementary. He watched as Mycroft fumbled with the tweasers and tried to get the broken heart out. 

Mycroft soon abandoned the piece and instead went after the Charlie horse, leaving Sherlock to deal with the broken heart. It would seem he could use the practice.

"Do you want to discuss it? Or just sit there listening to my 'drivel,' as you so affectionately call it?" He asked after a few tense minutes of silence.

Sherlock's scowl deepened in response to Mycroft's condescending tone of voice. He picked up the tweasers and silently fumbled for the broken heart but each time he attempted to get it out the red nose buzzed. 

Mycroft wanted to feel smug at the idea of his brother now being the one struggling with a broken heart, but he couldn't find it within himself to be that cruel when Sherlock was hurting so deeply. He sighed and flipped the switch on the board to turn the electric current off, the annoying buzzing ceasing immediately.

"Sherlock," he said softly, so softly he wasn't entirely sure Sherlock had heard him despite the deafening quiet of the room. "I am sorry."

Sherlock looked up at his brother, his eyebrows pinching to form a frown. He nodded as though saying "I know." His heart felt heavy inside his chest and he let out a weary sigh. Before Moriarty, before the fall, he'd been carelessly falling for John. But where had it gotten him? In a drug rehabilitation center struggling with a broken heart, moping about like his world had ended. And in a way, he supposed, it had. John Watson was his whole world and now Sherlock had lost him to fatherhood and a wife perhaps more enticing and intelligent that him. He'd played the game and he'd lost. 

Mycroft leant forward so his elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, now so dull and grey compared to the vibrant array of colours that normally flitted through them.

"Sherlock," he said softly. "Please. Let John see you. He only wants to help you in your recovery. And I made him swear to keep his hands off you so the incident at the hospital won't be repeated. Please, Sherlock. You know I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think it would help you."

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly. He couldn't face John. He was barely holding himself together as it was. If he was around John then he was certain he'd break.

 

"Sherlock... this could be the last time you see him in months. Possibly even years. Please. I know tensions are high between you two right now, but he wants to see you too. At least once before fatherhood takes him away."

Sherlock contemplated that, turning his brother’s words over and over in his mind. He nodded after a few moments, his resolve crumbling. 

Mycroft visibly relaxed at Sherlock's assent. With John's daughter's birth rapidly approaching, so would his false death. He knew Sherlock would be absolutely devastated if he hadn't allowed himself to see John before his "death." He sincerely hoped being able to see him would lessen the blow.

"Shall I make arrangements for you both?"

Sherlock nodded again, letting out a weary sigh. He gestured to Mycroft’s mobile phone, as though to say "Let's get this over with then."

Mycroft nodded and quickly dialed John's number. He picked up on the second ring.

"Please tell me this is good news," John whispered, Mary obviously nearby and John didn't want her to overhear his conversation. "Please tell me he's alright."

"My brother is..." Mycroft looked at Sherlock cautiously. "Requiring some company. Come at once."

"R... Really?" John asked, blinking rapidly, not truly believing Sherlock wanted to see him. "He's asking for me?"

"He was hesitant about seeing you. I managed to make him see sense. You will come immediately."

"Right. Yes. Of course." John scrambled to grab his jacket, almost dropping his phone in his haste. "I'll be there as soon as I can. And Mycroft?" He paused as he pulled his jacket on, switching his phone to his other hand. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Mycroft pursed his lips together. " Don't screw this up."

"I won't if he won't."

"Go easy on him, Doctor Watson. Try putting some of that lovely bedside manner to some practice use, hmm?"

"Don't patronize me, Mycroft," John spat, glaring at his front door as it stubbornly refused to open quickly. "Mary! I have to head out! I'll be back as soon as I can! See you later!"

He closed the door behind him before he could hear her reply, though he knew a condescending tone would have been in her voice. He didn't care. All he cared about was that Sherlock wanted to see him. And it was about bloody time. Mary was due any day now, which meant his disappearance was imminent as well. And he dreaded to think of just how long he'd be away because he knew Mary wouldn't go down without a fight or without taking a few down with her.

Sherlock stared down at the broken heart, expression morose. He mouthed two words to Mycroft silently.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft said as he pocketed his mobile. "I didn't quite catch that."

Sherlock glared At his brother and mouthed the words "Thank You" again, his cheeks turning a faint pink.

"Ah. Well, you're quite welcome, baby brother." He smiled wistfully and sighed. "Please promise me you won't try to send John away as soon as he arrives."

Sherlock sent Mycroft a withering look and huffed, childishly crossing his arms. As he was about to sign something very rude the nurse on duty at the facility walked through the door.

"Sorry to interrupt gentlemen, but I've got Sherlock's meds. It's that time I'm afraid." He said, giving Sherlock a smile that made his heart beat a bit faster.

The nurse was devilishly handsome. Even Mycroft couldn't ignore how attractive he was and flushed quite pink.

"No...no...of course. Go ahead um...?"

"Nurse Dickinson, Mr Holmes. I'm fairly new in this place."

"Ah. Well, that explains why we haven't met yet." He stood up and shook the nurse's hand. "A pleasure. I'm the man who provides your paycheck."

"I've heard a lot about you, Mr Holmes. I'm the one who gives your brother his medication."

"Yes, I gathered that when you came in and said it was time for his medication." He smiled and chuckled at his own attempt at humour. "My brother is expecting another visitor soon, just so the staff is aware. Do let Doctor John Watson in as soon as he arrives."

"Of course, yeah." He smiled in response, then held out the medication for Sherlock to take. "Let's see if your brother is going to play ball today."

Mycroft eyed Sherlock, glaring at him until he took the pills from the nurse.

"Actually swallow them," he growled.

Sherlock pushed the pills into his mouth with a grimace. He expertly stored them in the lining of his throat, where he would discard of them discretely later on.

"Open, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Show us you actually swallowed them."

Sherlock complied, opening his mouth. The pills were pushed behind his tounge, out of sight. It was a trick he'd learned as a child, when his parents had tried to force him to take vitamins. It was an incredibly useful skill to have and still worked a treat, Mycroft and the nurse fooled. 

"Thank you, Sherlock," Nurse Dickenson said, smiling at him politely. "I'll be on my way now."

"As will I," Mycroft said, satisfied that Sherlock was in good hands. "I hope you and John are able to reconcile your friendship a d have a civil conversation. Well, as much as you're able to."

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut, pleased that he'd managed to fool Mycroft. He watched as his brother stood, curtly nodded and left the room. The only sign of Mycroft's visit that remained was the still open game of Operation.

 

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

John arrived at the facility where Sherlock was staying in a matter of minutes. He wasn't sure if Mycroft had picked the location because of its prestigious reputation, or because it was close to his home with Mary. Or perhaps both. Either way, it would have been a win-win situation if Sherlock would have allowed him in the many times he'd stopped by to visit. But he wanted to see him now, and he was here, so that's all that mattered at the moment.

He paid the cab driver and made himself slow down so he didn't sprint into the rehab building like a madman. He needed to remain calm for Sherlock's sake. He didn't know what to expect when he walked in his room.

He walked up to the front desk and signed the visitation form while the nurse gave him a badge to allow him access to Sherlock's room. He smiled politely before heading off, steeling his nerves should they get into an argument like the last time he was with Sherlock in hospital. He'd been practicing his BSL between patients while at work, watching YouTube tutorials and even practicing with some of the staff who knew the language. He hoped it would suffice to communicate with Sherlock if he was still having trouble speaking.

* * *

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, his breathing becoming quick and ragged. He could hear approaching footsteps. He could pinpoint them anywhere. They belonged to John. He could feel his muscles tensing and he felt physically sick at the prospect of seeing his old friend after so long. 

John paused outside Sherlock's door. They hadn't seen each other since he'd practically assaulted him in hospital. He took a deep breath in through his nose, counting to five, then released it through his mouth, counting to seven. After calming down, he knocked on Sherlock's door before opening it, laying eyes on his best friend for the first time in months.

"Hey," he said, voice sounding a bit choked with emotion. "Can I come in?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and nodded slowly, gesturing for John to enter.

John stepped in and closed the door behind him to give them some privacy. He had a feeling they'd need it.

"How..." He trailed off and looked down at his hands. He wasn't sure if he should start off with signing or just ask Sherlock how his rehab was going. He didn't want to insult him by assuming something incorrectly.

Sherlock nodded over to the chair opposite him, beckoning John closer.

He swallowed and moved to the chair, not bothering to take off his jacket just in case he didn't end up staying long. He plopped down and looked down at his lap, an uncomfortable silence stretching out between them.

Sherlock wanted to break the silence but he didn't know how. Communicating with John used to be as easy as breathing but now...He didn't know where to start.

John decided to break the tension and attempted to sign at Sherlock to show him his progress.

*How is your r-e-h-a-b?* he asked, spelling out rehab as he didn't yet know how to properly sign it.

Sherlock considered lying to John, but he decided against it. He opened his mouth and coughed harshly, dislodging the tablets in his throat lining. They fell onto his open palm and he practically flung them across the table in answer to John's question.

 

The tablets landed on John's lap, but John didn't flinch. It wasn't the first time a patient had thrown their meds in his face.

*Sorry to hear that,* he signed instead. *You should take your medication. Speed things up. Can't have World's Lone Detective Consult laid up for too much too longer.*

*They say I'm depressed." Sherlock signed, a scowl forming on his features. *They want me to take these tablets...want to turn my brain to mush.*

"They're anti-depressants, Sherlock," John said aloud. "Sorry. My own signage still needs work. But my reading is better. I've been practicing."

*I'm not depressed, John.* Sherlock looked up at his best friend, expression honest and open. *I just miss you.*

"Oh." He looked down at their hands, close but not touching. "You could have let me visit you all the times I stopped by. I... I've missed you too. A lot. Life... it's boring without you there."

*I wasn't ready. I didn't want you seeing me like this. I...*

Sherlock leaned in closer, seemed to momentarily falter, then proceeded to wrap his arms around John in a warm hug. 

"God, Sherlock," John gasped as he was squeezed tight enough to force the breath out of his body. "God... c'mere." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and hauled him onto his lap, holding him close, petting his hair, rocking him gently as they both began to shake.

"Shhh. Shhh," he soothed softly. "It's alright. I'm here. I've got you."

Sherlock felt the furthest thing from alright. He clutched onto John tighter, his fingers digging into his friend painfully hard. He knew that he was leaving bruises but he couldn't bring himself to care. He just needed to be as close to John as possible. 

John wasn't sure what else there was to say in that moment, so he held Sherlock close and continued to whisper soothing things to help them both.

Sherlock pulled back to look into John's eyes.

*You have to get me out of here.*

John's eyes widened and he gulped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He couldn't get Sherlock out of rehab. He wouldn't be around much longer and Sherlock would probably end up back here anyway. He couldn't make any promises he couldn't keep. But he hated seeing Sherlock so miserable.

"I'm not making any promises," he whispered. "But I'll try."

Sherlock placed his hands On either side of John's face, forcing the man to look right at him. Once he was certain he had John's full attention he pulled back to sign.

*You will get me out of here.* his eyes narrowed. *You owe me.*

John scowled at him and pulled his hands off his face.

"I don't owe you shit," he spat. "I'm not the one who nearly overdosed on purpose. If anything, you owe me for putting me through hell all over again."

*I killed a man to protect your child. I was exiled and was going to be sent on an undercover mission in Europe, because I was labelled a murderer. Had I NOT overdosed I would have died in six months.*

John paused as he pieced together Sherlock's signs. When he had a rough translation he stiffened, his hands clasping Sherlock's waist tight.

"You were heading out on a suicide mission?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock nodded solemnly.

*I was going to die out there. I'd accepted my fate. But I couldn't do that...couldn't bear leaving you. So, yes, I overdosed.* 

John blinked, his fingers digging harder into the flesh of Sherlock's hips.

"You were going to kill yourself... because you didn't want to leave me?"

*A world without you wasn't worth living in.*

John choked on unshed tears as Sherlock finally said what had been unspoken between them for years. He clutched the back of his neck and pulled him forward until their foreheads touched, the tips of their noses rubbing together.

"And I couldn't live in a world without you," he whispered, his eyes squeezing shut to stop the tears. "I... I..."

He couldn't bring himself to say it aloud, not just yet, so he grabbed Sherlock's hand and signed it for him against his palm , knowing he'd be able to read the sign without having to see it. He curled his tallest finger and his ring finger toward his palm, leaving his thumb, pointer, and pinkie upright. If he couldn't verbally tell Sherlock he loved him he was gonna damn well tell him in a language he understood before he had to drop off the face of the earth.

Sherlock pulled back and looked between John's crumpled expression to the sign of love his hand was forming. He wished that he could convey that he felt the same but he just couldn't bring himself to do it...not when John didn't belong to him. He was married to Mary, with a child on the way. As soon as John's daughter is born then there won't be any space in his life for Sherlock. Telling John how deeply his feelings went would hurt even more knowing that it was too late. He and John were just two boats passing in the night.

Instead of telling John all of his spiralling thoughts he signed.

*If that's true, get me out of here. I saved your daughter. Why won't you save me?*

"I... I'll try," John whispered, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's. He was a little hurt that Sherlock hadn't returned his sentiment, but then again he never should have told him at all. He was going to disappear in a matter of days, he wouldn't be able to speak to him at all for months. He shouldn't have said anything.

He sat back and cleared his throat, wiping tears from his eyes. "Sorry," he croaked, avoiding looking at Sherlock. "That sign... forget I said it. I... I shouldn't have... I'm sorry. Just forget it. Delete it."

Momentary panic rippled across Sherlock's features in response to John's words. He didn't want John to take back that gesture. Please, god no. He pulled away from John's forehead, revealing his completely devastated expression and he rigorously shook his head.

He pressed his hand against John's beating heart, and spread out his fingers across his broad chest. 

John sighed and placed his hand over Sherlock's, grasping at his fingers and holding them tight. His other hand went to the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him forward until their foreheads touched again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. "I'm glad I finally said it... but I'm still married... for now... but that doesn't make my statement any less true."

Sherlock nuzzled John gently, letting out a small whine. He wanted John to be his. Wasn't that bleedingly obvious?

John managed a soft chuckle and rubbed his nose against Sherlock's.

"You're cute when you're needy," he whispered, kissing his cheek. "I hope we'll be able to explore this further someday. With all I feel for you... I don't want to be tied to Mary, or whatever her name is, forever."

  
Sherlock snaked his hand downwards, fingers searching for something in particular. His movements caused John to freeze up but he persisted until...He found one singular cigarette and a lighter in John's pocket. He pulled the items out and smiled softly in appreciation.

* Talking of catering for my needs...*

"I, um..." John cleared his throat, a deep flush creeping up his neck toward his cheeks. "I thought you might want some."

*Smuggling in contraband? My hardened criminal.*

Sherlock placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it.

John gulped and turned his face away from the smoke, coughing a bit.

"Sorry. Stinks," he gasped. "Brought you the strong stuff since I know you like it better."

Sherlock inhaled deeply, taking another drag. He blew the smoke away from John but made sure to make a show of smoking, knowing that seeing Sherlock's lips wrapped around the cigarette was driving John insane.

The flush on John's cheeks and neck darkened as he surreptitiously watched Sherlock smoke. He'd never found it to be sexy or erotic before, but God damn did Sherlock pull it off. It didn't help that the detective was sitting on his lap. He could probably feels his cock hardening against his thigh, which only made John's dick harder at the thought of Sherlock rutting against him like they were teenagers trying to sneak in a quickie.

Sherlock shifted on John's lap as he felt the arousal pressing up against him. John was showing clear signs of capnolagia, and Sherlock intended to see how far he could push this new found fetish.

Taking a risk, he inhaled a deep lungful of smoke and moved to press his lips against John's own. The man was surprisingly pliant and his mouth opened, whereupon Sherlock released the smoke, filling John's own lungs.

He gasped, inhaling on instinct. The thick smoke filled his lungs though it didn't have quite the sting as it had already been filtered through Sherlock. He moaned deeply as he exhaled and gripped and twisted in Sherlock's curls, pulling his lips harder against his own, kissing him deeply. His other arm wound around his waist, slipping down to his lower back just over the swell of his arse.

Sherlock pulled back to take another drag, immediately kissing John again, exchanging the smoke. He wanted John to associate the smoke with him, so that every time he thought of Sherlock he'd crave cigarettes. It was ridiculous but somehow the thought of them both smoking connected them, even if they drifted apart from one another. So he continued to inhale, kiss and exhale, until he was certain John understood what he wanted. 

John quickly caught on to what Sherlock was doing. He exhaled when Sherlock pulled back to inhale more of the cigarette smoke, inhaling when Sherlock kissed him as he blew the smoke into his lungs.

Steadily they built a rhythm, Sherlock rewarding John with more languid kisses each time. The more smoke John inhaled, the more heated their kisses became. 

All too soon the cigarette was gone, only the filter left. John exhaled the last of the smoke against Sherlock's face, moaning deeply.

"Damn," he whispered, not-so-subtly rutting against Sherlock on his lap. "What do we do now?"

Sherlock pushed himself off of John's lap and back onto his own chair. He gestured to John's obvious erection.

*Not that. I can't do that again.* 

"Wha-? Why?" John asked impulsively. When he caught himself he closed his eyes and held up a hand to silence Sherlock. "No. You're right. I'm sorry."

Sherlock placed a hand on John's knee and gave it a light squeaze, encouraging him to open his eyes. 

John sighed loudly through his nose. He didn't want to face what he'd started but couldn't finish. He felt Sherlock's hand squeeze tighter around his knee and knew he had to face the music. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked up into Sherlock's.

*Don't doubt that I don't want to, John. Had you asked a few years ago I would have jumped at the chance.*

"A few years ago?" John mulled that over for a moment, thinking back to when that would have been. "You mean back when Irene was taunting us? Before Moriarty fucked up everything?"

*Before Irene. John...* Sherlock's expression looked pained. *I wanted you since you shot the cabbie on our first case.*

"O-oh." John sat back and blinked, absorbing the new information. Sherlock had wanted him since the beginning? He remembered how he had felt while walked to the Chinese restaurant after Lestrade had cleared them from the crime scene. He knew something had been crackling in the air between them even then. He should have acted on it back then. Should have pulled Sherlock in for a deep kiss and a fantastic shag. They could have saved so much time.

"We've both been utter morons," he whispered brokenly.

*You always protested when people thought we were a couple. You stated you are not gay on many occasions. You never gave me any evidence to disprove that fact.*

Sherlock could feel his eyes shimmering with the threat of tears. It felt as though someone had delivered a massive blow to his heart.

"I always protested because I thought /you/ weren't interested! You told me yourself you were married to your work. What was I supposed to think?"

*So it's all my fault then?*

Sherlock drew his knees under his chin, burying his face in them. The fierce prick of tears began to burn behind his lids.

"I'm not putting all the blame on you, Sherlock. This is my fault too." He reached out and smoothed a hand through his hair, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. Or it could have also been from the tears the younger man was trying to hold back.

"Hey," he whispered, squeezing the back of his neck. "Look at me. Please?"

Sherlock could feel a scream building in his throat, an undeniable rage pulsing through his entire body. His breathing grew faster and more ragged, his heart racing dangerously fast, until...He SNAPPED. He flung the table in front of him, very almost hitting John and sending the earlier game of Operation to the floor.

"Just get me out of here!" He screamed, his deep baritone booming. "It should have been me, it should have...you owe me this!"

John barely ducked out of the way of the table, but the Operation game clipped him in his bad shoulder. He cried out and knelt on the floor, rubbing his shoulder as Sherlock shouted above him. It had been so long since he'd heard his voice, but he hadn't wanted to hear him so angry and broken.

"I'm sorry," he grunted through the pain radiating from his shoulder. "You're right. It should have been you. But I saw you die. I thought you were dead. And you broke my heart. If I'd known you were alive... I would have waited. For you. Always. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I told you...wasn't it obvious?!"

Sherlock looked around for something else he could throw but he couldn't see anything so instead he let out a furious scream. 

Nurse Dickenson ran into the room to see what all the commotion was about.

"Mr Holmes! What's going on?!"

"Get out!" Sherlock snapped. "Get out, get out, scram! "

"I can't do that, Holmes," Dickenson said. "You know that. Not when you're in such a destructive state."

"Sherlock, please," John begged, still crouched on the floor, clutching his shoulder.

"What?" Sherlock spat, voice becoming a dangerous hiss. "Please what, John?"

"Not like this," he whispered. "I don't want it to end like this."

"End?" Sherlock asked, his chest heaving painfully. "What do you mean?"

"This." He gestured between them. "My visit, our friendship, whatever kind of relationship we have. Please. I don't want it to end like this."

Sherlock became listless and the colour drained from his face. He leant down, face pressed between his knees as his breathing rapidly got erratic.

The next thing he knew, John was by his side. The man talked to him gently and reassuringly, patting him on the back like you would a baby. He barely had time to warn John when his churning gut caused him to vomit violently, protecting his sick directly over his best friends shoulder.

When he was done he expected John to be furious, and harsh cries left his lips.

John wasn't fazed in the least. It wasn't the first time he'd been vomited on, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. Especially with his daughter on the way.

He continued to comfort Sherlock as his body shook with the force of his sobs. He whispered soft things to him, words of praise and encouragement and reassurance. He knew the poor man needed to hear them.

Sherlock's sobs eventually began to die down, his body slumping forward in exhaustion. He became scarily still, barely stirring in John's arms. As always he was one extreme or the other.

"Take me home with you," he choked out. "Please."

"Alright," he whispered. "Alright. Let's get you home."

"I'm not sure you'll be permitted to do that." Dickenson stated, frowning. "Mycroft Holmes has us under strict instructions. Sherlock isn't to leave the facility whilst he's in such a poor state of health and mind."

 

"And he'll continue to be unless you let him go home," John stated, glaring at the nurse. "You don't know Sherlock Holmes as well as I do. So let me tell you that keeping him sealed off in a room with no windows, nothing to occupy his brain, nothing to keep him from self destructive behavior is going to do the exact opposite of help him. It could kill him. So I'm taking him home, and as his doctor I have the power and authority to do so. Now go fetch a wheelchair and bring me the discharge papers. Now!"

Dickenson nodded and scurried away, returning a moment later with a wheel chair.

The older man hooked his arms beneath Sherlock's armpits. Sherlock was lifted by John onto the seat and he let out a low whine in response. 

"It's alright, Sherlock," John told him, keeping his tone soft. "I'm taking you home."

Sherlock looked up at John with haunted eyes. The older man looked right back with something that looked akin to pity. He shrank back into the wheelchair, as far as he could go, wanting to escape that burning gaze. He knew John was suveying, scouring every inch of him, everything new and different from the times John had been living with him.

These days his gaze was dull and lifeless ; the fire that had been burning in them when he first met John was now barely a flame. He was a shadow of the man he used to be, looking even sicklier than usual. His facial features were gaunt now, his cheeks hollowed out. Beneath his eyes lay derp shadows, proving just how little Sherlock slept these days. His body was thinner and weaker in general, the curve of his ribs visible through the loose white facility-standard shirt. The crooks of his elbows were littered with old puncture marks, proving how weak he'd gotten after John had married Mary. And then there was the twitch in his right hand, his fingers occasionally spasaming, one of his unfortunate PTSD tells and something John was yet to pick up on. He was yet to address what the underline cause was because he refused to see a mental therapist, but it was probably a combination of his time away in Serbia and Mary shooting him.

"Don't." Sherlock's voice was small, cracked, the word shattering on his tongue. He wanted to go back to not speaking, where his hand gestures didn't give away the raw pain burning inside him. "Just...don't."

"Don't what, Sherlock?" John asked, walking around to the back of the chair to push him out of the room. "Don't look at you like I look at my patients? Because that's what you are now that I've signed you out. I'm responsible for your well-being and your therapy, physical, mental, and verbal. I'm here to take care of you now, OK? We're gonna get through this."

"But..." Sherlock' eyebrows furrowed. "The baby...John..."

"She's not here yet, and I told Mary I'd be out for a while. So I can stay with you as long as you need me to."

Sherlock nodded and slipped into silence, his mind racing, trying to come up with a suitable response but failing.

He was quiet as John pushed him through the doors, quiet as he was helped into the back seat of the car, and remained as such until they pulled up outside 221b.


End file.
